


A Gentle Surrender

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Anxiety, Asexual Castiel, Bisexual Dean, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Internalized Acephobia, Internalized Biphobia, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions of Cheating (Not Dean or Cas), Minor Charlie Bradbury/Gilda/Dorothy Baum, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, offscreen Dean/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's life has been on the down swing ever since he lost his job at Sandover. He's been drinking too much, never has a weekend off, and spends the majority of his days reigning in his deteriorating mental health. After a strange encounter involving a cantankerous cat, Dean strikes up a friendship with Castiel: his awkward, introverted neighbour who leads a life completely at odds with Dean's own. As time goes by, it seems that they may have more in common than Dean originally thought, and there are feelings starting to grow that are making things just a little bit complicated.</p><p>Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang 2014-15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow okay, this fic turned out a LOT longer than I was expecting it to. This is the longest fic I've ever written for a mini/big bang challenge. Hooray!
> 
> Firstly, **I must give thanks:**  
>  To totalcoolster, for giving this fic such LOVELY artwork. Thank you so, so much for your hard work. Please check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3835219) and leave them a kudos or a comment!  
> To consultingcas, who managed to squeeze in my fic for a last minute beta read. As per usual, you are an excellent beta and I really appreciate your advice!  
> To venusdebotticelli, thank you for being such a great fic writing buddy! Your enthusiastic support really helped me get this thing finished. Thank you!  
> To the mods of the SPN Ace Mini Bang, you guys have been absolutely GREAT! Thank you for organising this challenge. This has been a wonderful experience.
> 
> Secondly, for those wondering about **Cas's sexuality:** he is asexual, and he's never had sex. There is no sex in this fic. While he experiences attraction to Dean, it is a romantic attraction, not a sexual one. This isn't going to be a story about Dean swooping in and changing Cas's mind about his sexuality. Just so we're clear. :)
> 
> And now, I think it's important I clarify some of the **warnings for this fic.** If you've read the warnings and think you'll be okay, please skip ahead to avoid spoilers!  
>  **Alcoholism** \- Dean has bad coping mechanisms, what can I say? It's an issue throughout the fic and it is addressed.  
>  **Mental Illness** \- Both Dean and Cas suffer from it. This is from the perspective of Dean, however, so we're mostly focused on his mental health. Please be aware that there are bouts of depression, panic attacks, and generalised anxiety.  
>  **Internalised Acephobia/Biphobia** \- Dean is coming to terms with his bisexuality, and so he experiences some internalised biphobia along the way. Cas is asexual and experiences, to a minor extent, internalised acephobia.  
>  **Dean/OFC and Cheating** \- Dean wakes up in bed with a woman, but there's no real chemistry between them (Dean doesn't check her out or anything, she's about to leave when he wakes up). Dean doesn't even remember the night with her. The warning for cheating is on the OFC's side, because she's engaged and slept with Dean.
> 
> Wrt the rating - I originally set this at T, but due to some of the sexual-related topics discussed in the epilogue, I bumped it to M.
> 
> Okay, that's everything. This story is for all intents and purposes complete, but I will be adding an epilogue sometime this week. Keep an eye out! ;)

When Dean wakes up that morning, his head pounds like someone's jabbed a butter knife between his eyes. He grimaces, tasting a gross mixture of bourbon and kebab on his tongue. He'd promised himself he'd never give in to those late night kebab runs again, but damn it, there's a shop across the street that's open until sunrise. No one's strong enough to resist that.

With an embarrassing amount of effort, Dean pulls himself upright, stomach clenching in protest. He gives himself a few minutes, head resting in his hands. His memory's nothing but a haze of shapes and sound. How did he even get home last night? He's still in his jeans but his boots are sitting neatly by the door. That's not their spot. Did Benny take his sorry ass home last night? He owes that guy a beer.

Once he's on his feet, the nausea really kicks in. He slowly makes his way to the bathroom, nursing his stomach. He kneels on cold tiles and hovers above the toilet for a few minutes, just in case. When it becomes clear he's in no danger of chucking his guts up, he heaves himself upright and splashes tap water on his face until he feels human again.

Last night comes back to him in bits and pieces. He knows that Benny and Charlie were there. Maybe Garth, too. He can't remember for the life of him which bar they were at, only that the beer tasted like crap, so he'd hastily moved onto bourbon. That's when his memory starts to blur.

How much had his friends been drinking, anyway? Dean really hopes they were drunk enough to deal with his shit, at least. It's downright pathetic to be the drunk loser in a circle of sober friends.

He waits for another wave of nausea to pass, then staggers out into the kitchen. His jar of coffee is sitting in the recycling bin ― he finished that jar on _Tuesday_ , goddamnit, why hasn't he gone shopping yet? ― and the fridge greets him with a surge of cool air and a series of empty shelves. There's a half-filled carton of eggs and maybe a mouthful of apple juice. Something green and toxic-looking lurks in his vegetable drawer. He's pretty sure it's been there since March.

He snatches up the juice, downs it quickly, then hurls it into the recycling bin. It bounces off the rim, landing noisily on the floor. He'll pick it up later.

His stomach gurgles angrily. He needs bacon, toast, and about five cups of coffee. The Roadhouse does the greasiest, highest calorie breakfast in town. That'll be his first stop.

After a few minutes of searching, he locates his house keys under his bed and his wallet on the coffee table. He's still wearing his clothes from last night, but a shower can wait. Bacon is the priority right now.

Dean steps out onto the landing, wincing in the light. His headache increases tenfold. Just as he's locking up, he hears a door slam nearby, followed by a rather pitiful sounding, " _meow?"_

He turns around, frowning. His neighbour, a guy that he thinks might be named Cas, is clutching quite possibly the fattest cat in the world. The cat is squirming, uncomfortable, while Cas tries to get a firm hold on him.

"Good morning," Cas says, looking extremely frazzled. His dark hair's a catastrophe, bearing a close resemblance to a bird's nest. There's fur all over his sweater, and Dean's pretty sure there are tiny scratches on his cheek.

"Morning," Dean says, amused. "You okay?"

"Everything's under control," Cas informs him, even as the cat escapes his grasp. Huffing, Cas leans down, scooping the cat back up again. It looks deeply unimpressed. "Just, you know, I'm having an apartment inspection today. So, I'll be taking Cupcake here for a little drive. She's not happy about it."

In the back of his mind, Dean recalls the apartment block's rules on house pets ― namely, that no pets were allowed under any circumstances. There's a notice about it on the pinboard downstairs.

At the forefront of his mind, however, Dean considers the poor cat's name. "Who names a cat _Cupcake?"_

Cas shrugs helplessly. "I have a rather creative niece." At that moment, the intercom in Cas' room buzzes. His eyes widen in horror. "Ah, shit. That would be the landlord."

Well, that could be a problem.

"Reow?" the cat says, pawing petulantly at its owner's chin.

Cas stands frozen, clutching the cat tightly to his chest. Panic is written into every pore of his skin. The buzzer sounds off again, signalling Cas' approaching doom. He turns back towards his apartment, a deep frown settling on his face. He glances between the buzzer and the window at the end of the landing, almost as if he's formulating an escape route from three storeys high up.

Maybe it's because Dean's feeling generous today (despite the mother of all hangovers), but he finds himself taking pity on the guy and his fat, disgruntled cat. Dean's not much of an animal person, but he's pretty sure that if the situation was in reverse, he'd want his neighbour to help _him_ out.

And, well, he hates to admit it, but the guy's pretty easy on the eyes. Dean doesn't mind doling out charity to a guy with lips so pink and pouty they could star in a Chanel commercial.

"Here." Dean approaches him, arms beckoning. "Give her to me. I'll hide her in my apartment."

Cas lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree, gratitude oozing out of every stitch in that lumpy blue sweater. "Oh, are you sure?" He's already handing her over, though. "I'm so sorry, this is terrible of me―"

"Hey man, I'm offering," Dean says, grunting beneath Cupcake's generous weight. Christ, this thing weighs almost as much as Sam's fully grown labrador. Is this normal? "Seriously, it's fine. This'll take what, thirty minutes?"

"Hopefully less," Castiel says, nervously rubbing his hands together. "You're a lifesaver, really. I'll make it up to you."

The buzzer is ringing out in a pointed, agitated rhythm now. "You might wanna answer that," Dean says, gesturing with his head. "Marv's a real asshole when he's forced to wait."

Nodding, Castiel turns on his heel and marches inside and jams his finger on the intercom. "Marv?"

Dean's too far away to hear what he says, but Marv sounds pissy.

"Yes, my apologies. I was just in the, uh, shower." He waves a hand at Dean, mouthing the words _thank you_ just before Dean slips back inside his apartment.

Once tucked away behind the safety of his front door, Dean takes a deep breath. Cupcake squirms in his arms.

A sneeze comes on, violent and unexpected. Cupcake takes advantage of the situation by squeezing out of his hold and bounding off down the hallway.

Dean wipes at his nose, sniffing. There's fur all over him, easily visible against his dark shirt. He swipes at his chest, watching the fur float up into the air.

He'd forgotten about his allergies.

\---

Out in the hallway, Marv's and Cas's voices can be heard, engaged in quiet discussion. Dean, meanwhile, is having a standoff with Cupcake, who has planted herself on Dean's couch.

He's probably going to miss breakfast at the diner now, so he decided to fry up two eggs and hope they wouldn't kick his nausea into overdrive. It's basically tradition now for him to eat his meals on the couch, and now he has to deal with the very real possibility that Cupcake's fur will slip into every crease and crack of his beloved couch. It's very quickly becoming a hazard area.

He stands still, staring at Cupcake. His plate of eggs is perched in his hands, slowly going cold. Cupcake watches him with great suspicion.

"Move it," Dean tells her.

Cupcake blinks lazily.

"Hey, come on." Awkwardly, Dean balances on one foot while extending his other towards Cupcake, using his big toe to jab her soft belly. "Get."

Cupcake curls in tighter, hissing at his toe. Dean withdraws, keeping his appendages out of reach of tiny, sharp teeth.

Dean accepts defeat and slides into the other side of the couch, putting as much distance between him and the giant ball of allergies as he can. He eats his pathetic excuse for a breakfast in silence. Cupcakes purrs so loudly it makes the couch rumble.

Maybe five minutes later, somebody knocks on the door. Dean takes a moment to blow his nose before answering. Blessedly, Cas is standing on his doorstep, smiling gratefully.

"Marv's gone. Got through another inspection unscathed, thanks to you," Cas says. His face changes then, however, his eyes narrowing to a curious squint. "Are you sick?"

"Huh? What d'you mean?" Dean replies, but his answer is immediately followed by an obnoxious sneeze.

Cas glances at Cupcake and then back at Dean, eyes widening in understand. "You're allergic, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but, uh, I sorta forgot when I offered." Dean shrugs, sniffling into another tissue. His eyes won't stop _watering_ , Jesus. He must look real attractive right now. "Not that I wouldn't have offered anyway. You were stuck, I wanted to help."

"I'm so sorry, you're so kind. I am _so_ sorry." Cas slips past Dean, marching up to Cupcake and scooping her up. She meows in protest. "You really shouldn't have done this. Do you need anything? I can go to the pharmacy."

Dean waves him off. "It's fine. I'm a big boy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, seriously. Don't worry about it."

Cas sighs. "Thank you." Cas looks at him then, and jeez, this guy is way more attractive than Dean realised. His eyes, those lips, his ruffled hair, it's all just... _damn_ , his entire face is really distracting. "I just realised that I don't know your name."

"Oh." Dean blinks.

Right, they hadn't exactly introduced themselves. The only reason Dean thinks his neighbour's name is Cas is because he's pretty sure that's the name on the letterbox downstairs. He might be completely wrong, though. He's been calling this guy 'Cas' in his head this entire time and his name might actually be Jimmy or something.

"I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

"I'm Castiel Novak." Cas inclines his head, smiling. Dean internally fist pumps because _hell yeah_ , he got the name right. Well, sort of. "It's very nice to meet you."

Dean watches him leave, crossing the hallway and shutting the door behind him. Cupcake watches at him over Cas' shoulder.

\---

If Dean thought his headache from yesterday was bad, today's one is astronomically worse.

When he gets home it's already past nine o'clock, night having descended more than three hours ago. He's tired, and his feet and shoulders ache in equal measure. There's a bag of takeout hanging from his fingertips, but the harsh pang of hunger he left work with has faded to almost nothing. He'd been so desperate to gorge himself on takeout, end his mostly shitty day on a slightly higher note. Now, though? He just feels defeated. A tad nauseated, too.

Dean sighs, dragging his feet over to the couch and collapsing completely. He lays there for a moment, spaced out, the aches and pains slowly seeping out of his body and into the couch. He finds the strength to turn on the TV, then grabs a handful of fries from the bag, forcing himself to eat. They taste the way they normally do, but perhaps his tastebuds are on holidays or something ― it's like he's chomping on mashed up cardboard.

He zones out, losing himself in some restoration show, watching old motorbikes and pinball machines come back to life. He'd like to do that, he thinks. Maybe once his manager fires him officially, he can try and find a job like that.

The thought makes him groan. Dean scrubs his face and pushes himself upright, finally making a grab for his burger. The first bite is lukewarm and makes his stomach gurgle in protest. "Knock it off," he grunts, lightly punching his stomach, like that'll convince it to behave.

About halfway through his burger, he gets so lost in thought that his vision starts to blur, the TV reduced to streaks of colour.

_"You're a hard worker, Dean, but we've been getting too many complaints from customers recently."_ Ellen, his manager and pseudo-mother (That's the reason he managed to get a job there in the first place) had offered him a look of pity. _"I can't just ignore the complaints or someone's gonna take me to HR. I can't give any of my employees special treatment."_ Ellen had sighed, spreading her palms out across the desk _. "I'm putting you on probation, Dean."_

_"Ellen, come on,_ " Dean protested, resisting the urge to jump to his feet. _"People are idiots, okay? But I'm good at what I do. Ellen, you know I need the work right now―"_

_"I'm well aware of your situation, boy. Don't talk to me like I'm ignorant,"_ she snapped. _"We've all got bills to pay, and there are a hell of a lot of people out there who can't pay them. There are plenty of people who would_ kill _to have your job."_ She points a finger at him, and he shrunk in on himself. _"If it was anyone else, I'd probably have straight up fired 'em. You have any idea what these customers have been saying about you?"_

_"Probably the same crap they say right to my face,"_ Dean dismissed with a snort.

Ellen narrowed her eyes. _"There's a time and place to be a smartass, boy, and it ain't to the customers, and it sure as hell ain't to me."_ Her face had changed then, her frustration giving way to sympathy. _"Dean, I know you hate it, but you gotta go out there and smile until it hurts. People are gonna think you're stupid, that you're incompetent, and you're gonna have to smile for them, too."_ She shrugged helplessly. _"Otherwise you're gonna have to find another line of work."_

Dean swallowed, eyes downcast. When he finally met her gaze, he said, _"Yes, ma'am."_

Slowly he returns to the present, his gaze fixed on the ceiling and its dodgy paint job. He wonders how he became such a pathetic excuse for a human being, how it became so difficult for him to go to work and not get his sorry ass fired. First he gets laid off from Sandover ― a job that he'd actually gone to college for, by the way ― and now he's on thin ice in a goddamn _retail job_ , the literal bottom of the employment food chain.

If he loses this job with Ellen, what then? Is the fast food industry the next step? He looks at the bag of take out with trepidation.

God, he really does not want Sam to find out what's become of his big brother.

An hour later, he scrounges up enough motivation to get off the couch and dump his leftovers in the trash. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a folded piece of paper that's sitting by the front door, like someone slipped it beneath the crack. Frowning, he approaches the door with a looming sense of dread.

His eyes have barely read the first sentence before he's cursing to himself. An inspection, one week from now? Shit. _Shit._

Dean glances around his apartment, notes the stains on the kitchen floor, the overflowing trash cans, the dirty clothes that leave a trail through the apartment to the bathroom.

"Shit," he says, then pinches the bridge of his nose and counts to ten.

\---

Five days have passed and his apartment's still a complete catastrophe. He'd tried, sort of, to get a few things done: the mountain of dishes, picking up clothes and dumping them in his washing basket (They remain unwashed), and last night he'd found the strength to put a little cleaner in the toilet bowl, but that's all. There's six months worth of dust on most flat surfaces, and there's a strange smell emanating from the laundry room that he's trying very hard to ignore.

It's the weekend, and normally Dean works at least one day ― if not both ― but he managed to swap his shift so he'd have a solid two days to clean up the place. Unfortunately, it's now 11 o'clock on Saturday night, and all he's been able to do today is put away the dishes he washed up two days ago.

Dean leans back against the couch, taking large gulps of beer. He's had about five drinks too many, he can't exactly afford to sustain this kind of a drinking habit. When he's this buzzed, however, he finds it incredibly hard to give a shit.

What did he even do today? he wonders. He must have done _something_ to waste away so many hours, but he can't recall a damn thing.

\---

He wakes up with his face stuck to the couch's arm and his neck practically screaming in pain. There's a pool of drool setting up camp on his face. Groaning, he checks the time.

Immediately, he starts to freak out. It's midday already and the inspection's at 10 o'clock tomorrow. _Christ._

Suddenly he's in Panic Mode. He gets up and heads straight for the kitchen.

There's an IKEA bag full of recycling hurled over his shoulder and a stinking bag of rubbish in his hand. With great difficulty he finds the door handle and steps out of his apartment, stumbling his way downstairs.

After dumping everything, he's on his way back to the building when he sees Cas by the front door. Cas unlocks the door and waits, holding it open for him. He smiles as Dean slips inside.

"Thanks," Dean says, returning the smile.

"That's alright." Cas frowns at him then. "Are you alright, Dean? You seem stressed."

Dean startles at that. It's those damn laser eyes, he thinks. They notice too much.

"I'm fine," he says, even though he's pretty sure his heart's trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. He's buzzing, hands shaking just a little, and he's suddenly very conscious of the fact he hasn't taken a shower today.

Cas gives him a disbelieving look, eyes narrowing.

Dean sighs. "I just have an apartment inspection tomorrow, that's all." He waves his hand and starts making his way upstairs, escaping this conversation as quickly and as casually as possible. "I'm a bit behind schedule but it's nothing to worry about."

Cas is right by him, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up. "Oh, do you need help? I can help you."

_Help,_ the one word that always makes Dean's brain shut down. "No," he says immediately. Then, because he doesn't want to sound rude, "I mean, no, but thanks. I'm good."

"I don't have anything to do today," Cas protests. "I like cleaning, actually. It's quite therapeutic for me."

"Cas, I appreciate the offer, but I can't let you do that." He finally comes to a stop at the first floor, turning to meet Cas' stupidly earnest face. "My apartment's trashed, and I gotta be the one to clean it up."

"Why?"

Dean stares at him, caught off guard. "Well, because it's my mess. I made it. I should be the one to clean it."

"But the inspection is tomorrow," Cas says, those laser eyes boring into him. "You're obviously stressed for time. Let me help you."

There's about ten seconds where no one says anything, and then Dean sighs, raking a palm across his face. "Cas―"

"I mean, I'm not going to force my way into your apartment or anything, but I'm very determined to help you." The look on his face shows it, too. "Think of it this way: you helped me by hiding my cat, and I can return the favour by helping you clean. That makes us square then, right?"

He can get behind that idea, sort of. In his experience, owing a debt to someone just hovers unpleasantly in the back of his mind. If Cas wants them to be square, well, maybe he _should_ just put aside his pride and accept his help.

Dean stares down the stairwell, trying to avoid that intense gaze. "Cas, I can't ask you to do this, it's just―"

"You're not asking," he says dismissively. "I'm offering."

With a sigh of defeat, Dean looks at Cas, a tiny smile creeping across his face. "Fine. If you're that serious about it, then let's do this."

Cas smiles victoriously, then leads the way upstairs.

\---

Castiel Novak is a goddamn cleaning _machine._

The first thing Cas had done was inspect Dean's cleaning supplies, clucking his tongue disapprovingly before marching out of the apartment. At first Dean thought Cas had bailed on him, but then Cas returned with an entire bucket full of cleaning supplies ranging from sponges to sprays to bleach to actual freaking _gloves_. He even had a spare pair for Dean in a hideous shade of pink. Dean bit back his complaint and put them on, because the guy looked like he was building up to a lecture otherwise.

Since then, Dean's witnessed the complete and utter eradication of mess. The kitchen benches are shining, his lounge room looks identical to the way it was when he first started living here, and that funky smell coming from the laundry has been identified and handled swiftly (A blocked drain, apparently. Cas had dumped a gallon of some drain-unclogging shit down there and the problem's gone away for now, at least). It's almost like there are five Castiels toiling away, scrubbing and dusting and vacuuming and hefting loads of his dirty freakin' _underwear_ into the washing machine. Dean seriously cannot keep up.

The few photographs he has of Sam and his parents have been wiped down and straightened and re-organised. Cas hadn't touched those; he seemed to understand that he should leave them for Dean to handle. Dean appreciates that.

When Dean agreed to let Cas help him out, he'd been under the impression they'd get a chance to talk, get to know each other. Cleaning's pretty boring, right?

Well, it is ― for Dean, anyway, he's not sure about Cas ― but they've been so goddamn _busy_ they've barely spoken to each other the entire time. Dean would feel bad about it, but Cas doesn't seem to particularly mind. All afternoon it's like he's been on some kind of important _mission._ His level of focus is equal parts terrifying and endearing.

By 6 o'clock that evening, they're basically done. There's still a load of washing that's spinning in the dryer, but Dean's confident he can handle that one on his own.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate this, Cas," Dean tells him. Hands on hips, he scans the apartment for anything out of place, but he has a feeling that Marv's going to be very happy. Well, as happy as that crabby old bastard can be, anyway.

Cas, who looks tired and sweaty but ultimately pleased, gives him a sheepish smile. "I was happy to help, Dean. I just hope that Marv doesn't pick up on something that we missed."

"If Marv starts nitpicking, I'm gonna just outright punch him in the face. Seriously," he says, grinning when Cas huffs a laugh. "But dude, the work you did today...that's _so_ beyond what you owed me. Let me buy you dinner or something."

Cas seems quite touched by his offer, if the light pink flush across his cheeks is anything to go by. "Thank you, Dean, but I actually have plans to have dinner with my sister tonight." He pauses, glancing at his wristwatch. "...Which I'm late for, actually."

Dean chuckles. "Don't let me keep you any longer then."

He gathers up his bucket of cleaning supplies, and just as he's about to leave, he stops in the doorway. He turns to face Dean, a hopeful look on his face. "You know, we could do breakfast sometime. If you wanted." He shrugs, waves a hand. "Just an idea."

"Sure," Dean says. "I usually work afternoons and nights, so breakfasts suit me fine."

Cas beams. "Okay, good. Good. Well, I'll see you around, Dean."

He waves awkwardly, then walks across the hall and shuts the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

About two weeks following the inspection, Dean trashes his apartment on a truly epic scale. He invites a group of twenty-something people over for a Friday night party, mostly people he knows at least relatively well, although there are a few friends-of-friends that show up, too. The original plan was for people to come over, maybe have a few drinks and watch some football, but that whole plan fell apart pretty quickly. Well, he's pretty sure that they _did_ end up watching the football, but 'a few drinks' quickly came 'about twelve too many'.

He had fun, though. Well...sort of. His memory's not the best right now, but he probably had fun at the time.

Dean doesn't wake up until two o'clock the next day, the afternoon sun pouring in through the slanted blinds. While sitting on the edge of his bed, massaging away the pain behind his eyes, he checks his phone, finding a single text from Charlie: _You might wanna check fb._

He stares at the message, trying to recall whether Charlie had even been there last night. Either way, a creeping sense of dread descends upon him. Preparing for the worst, he opens up Facebook.

Sure enough, there's photo after photo of him making a complete ass of himself. There are two videos, too ― one shows him with vomit on his shirt, slurring protests about cleaning himself up, and the follow up video features him butt naked in the shower, singing badly while whoever's doing the filming just laughs at him. He thinks the one filming him might be Gordon, one of those friends-of-friends. Apparently Gordon's a goddamn douchebag.

A lot of the photos show him and Gordon hanging out with each other, however, with Dean becoming increasingly drunker as the party progresses. In the background of a few of the photos, he spots Charlie (So she _was_ there, he knew he'd invited her) talking with Lisa and Victor, two of his former colleagues. Another photo shows him wedged between Lisa and Victor, arms around their shoulders, his face flushed and sweaty. He used to have big fat crushes on the both of them. The whole reason he invited them was in the hopes he might be able to get lucky with one of them, but judging by the mildly uncomfortable looks on their faces, that won't be happening any time in the near future.

"Fuck."

Dean groans, flopping back onto the bed. He doesn't even _use_ Facebook; now those photos and videos are out there for the world to enjoy. Hopefully Sam hasn't seen them yet. He'll have to ask Charlie how to delete them, or maybe he'll have to pester Gordon into taking them down. Although, he seriously doubts that Gordon will have mercy on him ― despite last night's alcohol-induced friendship, Dean's never really liked Gordon.

With an incredible amount of effort, Dean pulls himself to hit feet and drags himself to the bathroom. His clothes from last night are lying in a pile by the shower, a truly repulsive smell lingering around that particular corner of the room. The sight reminds him of those videos, and shame curls in his gut.

He moves to the basin, the splash of cold water helping with his headache. He stares at himself in the mirror, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the red tinge to his skin. Way to make a fool of yourself, Winchester.

He covers his eyes with his hands, relishing in the cool press of skin. He can feel his pulse speeding up, beating angrily against his eyeballs. What if someone from work sees those pictures? His naked ass is on the internet, for Christ's sake. God, that thought alone makes him want to have a drink, but it was drinking that got him into this mess in the first place. He's got the worst coping mechanisms _ever_.

Eventually he makes his way towards the kitchen, but comes to a standstill in the lounge room. He's frozen in place, surveying the damage: empty bottles and cans litter the coffee table and floor; there's an orange stain on his rug, like someone spilled soft drink; bottle caps are all over the couch and floor, just waiting to be stepped on; and there's a cooked steak just sitting on the TV cabinet. There's no plate or utensils or anything near it, just a goddamn steak sitting next to his DVD player.

With an exasperated sigh, Dean continues his journey to the kitchen. He already expected it to be pretty bad, but this is by far the worst part of the house: food and drink have been spilled onto the tiles, plates are precariously piled up by the sink, and the rubbish bin has actually been knocked over, its contents mixing together with the rest of the mess. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots a cockroach scuttling across the bench, hiding inside a cup.

Dean blinks slowly, taking it all in. It's overwhelming how filthy the place is. He leans against the fridge, suddenly needing the support. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, but all he inhales is the stench of rotting food. He cups his hands over his mouth, breathes into them. For about two minutes he just stands there, breathing until the tightness in his chest eases. It's a trick that Sam taught him a few years back, this steady breathing technique. Dean hadn't taken it on board until recently, and he sure as hell won't be telling Sam that he actually listened to his advice. That kid's too smug for his own good. Dean gives him way too many 'I told you so' opportunities as is.

Right, enough standing around. Today's his day off and he doesn't want to spend the whole day cleaning up. Best to get it all out of the way now, and then he can actually relax for once.

After he gets coffee, though. He can make time for a coffee run. His instant coffee's running low, and it tastes like crap anyway.

He pulls on jeans, a clean t-shirt and a jacket, and makes sure to use the mouthwash so he at least gets rid of the lingering vomit breath. Once he looks mostly presentable, he heads out the front door, locking up behind him.

As fate would have it, he turns around and nearly smacks straight into Castiel.

"Whoa!" Dean takes a step back. "Hi, Cas."

"Hello, Dean." Cas cocks his head to the side, his lips quirking up. "Big night last night?"

Dean stares at him, puzzled, and then flushes with understanding. "We were pretty loud, I take it?"

Cas smiles. "Obscenely." He waves a hand when Dean starts to apologise. "It's alright, I'm a heavy sleeper. There was a football game on, wasn't there?"

"Yeah, not that I remember anything about the game."

Cas huffs. "Rough night, then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Dean shakes his head. "The whole night's been recorded and published directly to my Facebook, so."

"Oh no." Cas looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh. "You don't sound happy."

"There's a video of me singing _Back in Black_ while taking a shower." Dean looks at him, deadpan. "It ain't pretty."

"You were clothed, right?" Cas asks, grinning openly now.

"If only," Dean sighs. "I mean, don't get me wrong, my body's a goddamn work of art, but it ain't exactly for public viewing, you know?"

Cas laughs, the noise echoing around the landing. Dean takes in the deep sound, the gummy smile, the crinkles around his eyes, and feels strangely proud.

Once he's finished laughing at Dean's suffering, Cas straightens up, biting back a smile. "Sounds like you might need some new friends."

"Yeah," Dean says, eyes roaming Cas' face. "Yeah, definitely. Hey, you know..." He slips his hands into his pockets. "I was on my way to grab some coffee. Maybe get a bit of food, uh, if you wanna join?"

Cas says nothing for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. Dean waits, his stomach twisting with nerves.

"I'll pay?" Dean suggests.

"Bribing me, are you?" Cas quirks a brow.

"Or, you know, you can pay," Dean says with a shrug.

"I think I prefer the first option," Cas says, chuckling. "I was just heading out for lunch before I bumped into you, actually."

"Well then, I guess it's a date." Dean blinks, because, _what?_ "Uh, a man-date."

"Right," Cas says, smirking just a little. "I haven't been on a man-date in a while."

Dean coughs. "Yeah, me neither. Uh, anyway." He gestures towards the stairwell. "Shall we?"

\---

Castiel is an interesting man-date.

For one, he holds his knife and fork in the opposite hands ("Are you a lefty?" "I'm ambidextrous, actually."), and he refuses to drink anything without a straw. He asks for extra pickles on his burger, and is more than happy to pilfer Dean's when their burgers are brought out. While he's content to use his hands when eating his burger, he takes the time to carefully cut up his fries and pop them in his mouth with his fork.

He's kind of an oddball, actually. Dean likes it.

"So, Cas," Dean says, finishing off the last of his burger. "What do you do? Do you work?"

Cas sips at his milkshake before answering, "I work for my sister."

"Oh? And what does she do?"

"She's an artist," Cas says, stirring his drink with his straw. "She create designs for t-shirts, mugs, that sort of thing. I'm in charge of the distribution side of things." He gives him a small smile. "I'm her glorified printer and postman, basically."

"Ah, the little brother gets stuck with the dirty work." Dean blinks, frowning at himself. "Unless you're the older brother. I dunno why I assumed..."

"Well, you assumed correctly," Cas says, still smiling. "Anna is very proud to have been born eleven months before me. She is more than happy to remind me at every opportunity."

Dean hides a grin behind his hand. "Sounds like me and my brother."

"You're older?"

"Yep."

Cas shakes his head. "I hate to think what kind of torture you've put him through."

"Oh, you know, the usual." Dean pretends to deliberate, stroking his chin. "Your typical sort of stuff: noogies, wedgies, hiding under his bed, in his closet..."

"You're a monster," Cas tells him, and Dean bursts out laughing. Cas takes a victorious sip of his milkshake.

The waitress comes along to clear their plates. She's a brunette, rosy-cheeked and freckled, and Dean would normally take the time to check her out ― she's definitely his type ― but his attention remains solely on Cas. He barely spares her a glance. He can't really explain why, but he's strangely captivated by the man in front of him. The lighting in the cafe is gentle and warm, spreading a golden glow across Cas' hair, brightening up his eyes. His cheekbones are high but his face looks soft, and Dean's possessed by a strange urge to reach out and touch him. He refrains, of course, but the urge itself is worth questioning.

"So, this distribution thing you got going on," Dean says, returning to their conversation once the waitress has disappeared. "It pays the bills, I take it?"

Cas nods. "It was a bit of a step down from my previous line of work, but I'm much happier now. I can still afford an apartment, order takeaway, all of my creature comforts."

"What did you used to do?"

"I was a manager," he says, a wrinkle of distaste curling at his lips. "For an IKEA store, actually."

"No shit? Half my apartment's decked out in that flat-pack stuff."

"Mine too," Cas says, smiling. "The employee discount was certainly a bonus, but..." He trails a thumb against his glass, wiping at the condensation. "I couldn't do it anymore. I stayed for a few years, but, it just became too much."

"Too much pressure from upper management?"

Cas scratches the back of his neck, staring out the window. "A little. I mean, I was never a leader, so I'm not entirely sure why I went for the job in the first place. More than that, though..." He claps his hands together on the table, massaging one thumb with the other. "Even if I wasn't a manager, I would have quit by that point anyway. Customer service is...it's just―"

"Excruciating," Dean finishes, raising a brow knowingly. "Yeah, I'm working in retail right now. I totally get it."

Cas' shoulders slump, visibly relaxing. "That's a relief," he sighs. "It's...tedious, having to explain myself."

"No need. I totally hear ya." Dean leans back in his seat, cradling the back of his head with his palms. "Customers are idiots, man. You gotta explain things a dozen times for them to get it sometimes."

"I don't know how you stand it," Cas says earnestly. "I've had customers scream at me, spit on me―"

"I've had a customer throw a chair at me," Dean admits. Cas looks horrified. "It missed. Hit my manager, though. She was standing behind me."

"Holy shit."

"Well, it turned out alright. My manager, Ellen, she was not gonna take that sitting down," Dean says, chuckling at the memory (and his incredible pun). "I had to kinda hold her back, actually. She was ready to knock the guy's teeth out."

"Why on earth did someone throw a chair at you?" Cas says, mouth agape.

"They wanted to return it," Dean answers, shrugging carelessly, like it didn't traumatise him for weeks afterwards. "But they didn't have a receipt, and we were, like, ninety percent sure he picked it straight off the shelf and brought it up for a refund, so." He shrugs again. "He was mad, apparently. So he tried to kill us with it."

Cas pushes away his milkshake, then leans heavily on his elbows. With a heavy breath, he exhales into his hand. His eyes fall closed. "I never had anything that bad happen. Most of the time my shifts were good, nothing happened, but I used to get these..." He glances up at Dean, hesitating, then pats his chest. "Panic attacks. Before my shift." He sits back in his seat, directing his attention to the window and the world beyond. "I'd finish a shift and immediately start to stress about the next one. I'd panic days in advance sometimes. On the weekends, on holidays..." He shakes his head. "I couldn't do it anymore."

The weight of Cas' words hang over Dean, and he looks at him now in a slightly new light. He doesn't think badly of him, of course ― he just wonders what goes on inside his head; wonders if maybe Cas and himself aren't so different.

"Sounds like you made the right decision," Dean tells him. Cas looks back at him, surprised. "You still get those, uh, panic attacks now?

Cas' eyes roam his face, his brow pulled into a contemplative frown. He chews his bottom lip. "Not about work," he answers carefully. "I can work from home, and I only need to go to the post office twice a week. I know the people who work there. They're polite. Predictable." He closes his eyes again and then exhales harshly. "Sorry, I think I need a change in topic," he says, chuckling mirthlessly.

"Yeah," Dean says, smiling in reassurance. Once again he resists the urge to reach out, to touch. "Say, you got any idea how to remove videos off Facebook?"

About thirty minutes later they're leaving the cafe together, their stomachs full and satisfied. Despite his lingering headache, Dean feels good ― it's nice to have a genuine conversation with someone without the help of alcohol.

"Are you heading home?" Cas asks, angling towards their apartment block.

Dean would like to, mostly because he's not quite ready to leave Cas' company just yet. His image of Cas was a kind ― if slightly strange ― neighbour with a soft spot for giant, chubby cats. Now, well, it feels like there's more to him, and Dean would very much like to get to know him better, peel back some of those layers.

Then, of course, he thinks of his barren fridge and that damn steak sitting near his TV. His stomach turns sour.

"Nah, I can't just yet. Gotta do responsible shit." He kicks at a loose piece of concrete, hands buried in his pockets. "My body will never forgive me if I don't get some groceries."

Cas nods, wrapping his arms around his belly. His expression is soft, his eyes meeting Dean's own. "I'll see you around, then."

"Hell yeah," Dean says, his enthusiasm surprising a laugh out of them both. "Alright, well, uh, see ya later."

"Bye, Dean."

He sets off in the direction of Walmart, a solid ten minutes away. The entire way there, he feels himself being tugged back in the direction of his apartment block. Not because of his bed or his semi-functional shower or his back-up supply of bourbon, but because of the man living directly across from him, five steps from his front door.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's busying himself with dinner preparations when his phone starts to buzz. At first, he wants to ignore it ― these potatoes are bubbling and they're close to perfect ― but his phone just keeps on buzzing. A phone call, then.

His kitchen's a symphony of loud, domestic noises, so he heads for the couch, mutes the television, and answers without checking caller ID.

"Hiya Dean," says a voice that unmistakably belongs to Charlie. "How ya doin'?"

"Good," Dean says, frowning slightly. "Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Yeah, I've been preoccupied with work," she says, her sigh carrying across the line. "And wooing two very lovely ladies, actually."

"Oh yeah?" Dean says, his interest piqued. "Two?"

"Their names are Dorothy and Gilda," she says dreamily. "At first I was all like, 'Crap, they're both hot, what do I do?' but then I thought, 'Hey, I got enough game for both of them, so why the hell not?'"

Dean shakes his head, chuckling. "Let me know how it works out." Sounds like a trainwreck waiting to happen.

"Will do, buck-a-roo. But tell me something," she says, her tone turning less playful. "Where the heck have you been? It's been weeks! Months, even."

Guilt slithers into Dean's stomach. He scratches the back of his head anxiously. "Ah, sorry. Guess I've been kinda busy myself."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Well..." Dean bites his lip. "I mean, I dunno, I've been working a lot, but I've also been hanging out with someone."

"Someone?! Who is this special someone?" she asks, her tone suggestive.

"Not like that," Dean groans. "It's a guy, and he's my neighbour."

"Hey, I ain't judging," Charlie says, and even though he can't see her, Dean knows she's smirking. "You can 'hang out' with whoever you want."

"Charlie," Dean says warningly.

"Alright, alright," she laughs. There's a rustling on the end of the line, like she's getting comfortable. "So, you made yourself a new friend. What's he like?"

Dean huffs, scratching at his chin. "He's...different, I guess. Quiet. Kind of a loner. He's got the driest sense of humour though," he snorts. "Catches me off guard sometimes. He bought me this stupid-looking cactus because he reckons it  _ reminds him of me _ . Prickly and ugly. He's a charmer."

"Is he cute?"

Dean blinks. Instinctively, he wants to tell her  _ yes _ , he's cute, but then mentally slaps himself. "How should I know? I don't look at dudes that way, Charlie."

"Well, neither do I," Charlie says smoothly. "Doesn't mean I don't have eyes."

"Whatever," Dean grumbles, rubbing his neck. "Anyway, we've just been hanging out a bit."

"A bit?! You went from coming to the bar every second night to, like, never showing up at all. Has he kidnapped you or something?"

"We've just been, uh. I dunno. We have breakfast and stuff. We went and saw  _ Jupiter Ascending _ the other day."

There's a stern silence on Charlie's end. "You went and saw it...without me? Dean, I am hurt."

He knows she's just joking around, but it doesn't stop the guilt settling deeper inside him. Truthfully, it's not really his sort of movie. Cas was the one who wanted to go. Dude's obsessed with bees. That movie is  _ made  _ for him. 

"Hey, I'm sorry. We can go and see it this weekend if you want. I'll pay." 

"Hm, well, actually," she says, clicking her tongue, "the reason I called is because it's Andrea's birthday this Friday. Benny really wants you to come. And me, obviously. We're hitting up Abercrombie's for dinner and then we'll go from there. Interested?"

Dean's been friends with Benny for years, Charlie even longer. Throughout the entirety of each friendship, he's never wanted to turn down an opportunity to hang out with them. Right now, though? There's an inexplicable sense of dread which springs to the front of his mind.

What comes out of his mouth, however, is an enthusiastic, "Hell yeah, I'm interested!"

"Awesome!" Charlie cheers. He can hear her fist pump. "Great! Well, dinner's at seven. Come early though, yeah? You know how Andrea gets about being punctual."

Once they've said their goodbyes, Dean tosses his phone onto the coffee table. An undercurrent of stress lingers inside him, rendering him motionless on the couch for so long that his boiled potatoes turn to mush.

\---

Dean spends the rest of his week feeling strangely nervous. The only reason he doesn't pull out of the event entirely is because he knows, at least on some level, that it's not because he doesn't want to see them. They're his friends, of course he wants to see them! The social aspect isn't the problem here:  _ he's _ the problem. Or, at the very least, his drinking habits are the problem.

That incident with Gordon two months ago still sits fresh in his mind. At night, when he's struggling to fall asleep, it creeps into his consciousness and makes him want to smother himself with a pillow, if only so that he won't have to feel embarrassed about it anymore. The video of him in the shower was taken down but the other one remains, featuring him in a disgusting, vomit stained t-shirt with watery eyes and an obnoxiously loud voice. A few days after the incident, he was actually starting to find it kind of funny, but then someone at work had gotten a hold of it. Literally every single member of staff has seen that video at least once. Nobody lets him forget it, either.

Eventually, Sam saw it, too. He made sure to tease him about it in one of their bi-weekly phone calls. That conversation had left Dean feeling particularly sour.

That lingering video and all of the other photos up on his Facebook serve as a constant reminder of what got him into trouble in the first place  ― he cannot, for the life of him, stop himself from drinking too much. 

The thing is, though, is that he never actively sets out to drink himself into oblivion. When he's drunk, he's sloppy, loud, and always on the brink of passing out. Sometimes he's fun, sometimes he's a buzzkill. The moment he gets one drink into him, however, he just keeps on going. He can't control himself.

Abercrombie's is a pub about a twenty minute walk from Dean's apartment. It produces some of the most delicious food on the planet. They make hot dogs, buffalo wings, and the best goddamn double cheeseburgers in existence. In other words, they cater to every one of Dean's dietary requirements. Being a pub, however, also means it's got beer on tap, and cheap beer plus Dean Winchester is a dangerous combo.

That's not to say Dean hasn't been drinking the past few weeks. In fact, he's drinking virtually every night. However, there's a difference between getting drunk in public and getting drunk in the privacy of his own home. At least at home no one can see him make a spectacle of himself.

God, he does not want to go out on Friday. He'd much rather stay at home, keep his drunken shenanigans confined to his lounge room.

He can't wiggle out of it, though. It's for Benny's girlfriend, for a birthday. It would be outright rude to not show up, especially since he's been unintentionally avoiding his friends for so long.

Come Thursday morning, Dean's  _ still  _ obsessing over it. He and Cas are out to breakfast ― Cas chomping on raisin toast, Dean sticking to coffee ― but he's completely distracted. The weather is warm, sunshine caressing his skin through the open window, but it does nothing to lift his grumpy mood. 

Normally he's happy to ramble on to Cas about whatever pops into his head, but he hasn't got the energy for it today. Cas never seems to mind the silences, though. It's kinda weird how comfortable they are around each other.

Cas  _ does  _ notice Dean's sour frown and twitching leg, however. 

"Is something wrong?"

Dean shrugs helplessly. He hates that question. "Benny ― you remember Benny? I think I mentioned him ― well, his girlfriend's birthday is tomorrow. They're all going out. They invited me along."

Cas waits for Dean to continue. When Dean says nothing, his lips twitch. "Are you...upset? That they invited you?"

"Uh, not exactly," Dean huffs. "It's complicated, I just. I dunno." He rakes his fingers through his hair. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?" Cas says, cocking his head.

Dean opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish, lost for words. 

Cas hurriedly assures him, "You don't have to tell me. It's alright."

"No, no, it's fine," Dean says with a shake of his head. "It's like..." He chews his bottom lip. Cas's face is earnest and kind, and there's something in that face that makes him feel ashamed; embarrassed even more by his drinking problem.

_ Is _ it a problem, though? Isn't alcoholism more serious than this? Dean has no clue. Sure, he drinks every day, but so do a lot of young people. Well, Dean's in his late twenties now, not a rebellious teenager, but he's still in that age group, right? Sort of? Everyone in that age group drinks a lot of alcohol. It'd be  _ abnormal  _ if he was drinking less than that.

Dean's getting a migraine just thinking about it. Cas doesn't need to know about his potential-but-not-really alcoholism. Or his existential crisis at all, for that matter.

He stares down at his cooling cup of coffee and sighs. "Last time I had a big get together I made an ass of myself and nobody's let me forget it," he explains. "I just don't want more embarrassing shit on my Facebook again. My freakin'  _ boss  _ knows about that shower video." Cas hasn't seen the shower video (At least he  _ hopes  _ he hasn't) but he knows enough about it.

Cas offers him a sympathetic look, which Dean probably doesn't deserve. "You were intoxicated, you got a bit carried away," he says gently. "Why don't you just have soda instead?"

Dean chuckles. Cas blinks at him and  _ oh _ , Cas was serious. "Well, I mean, we'll be at a pub."

Cas shrugs. "I drink soda at pubs all the time."

"Really? You don't have, like, a beer or something?"

"Not really," Cas says. Dean stares at him, and suddenly Cas looks a little bashful. "I might have a drink or two, but I don't really drink to get drunk. I don't like being drunk."

"Seriously?"

Cas folds his arms, his gaze directed out the window, frowning. "Seriously."

Dean leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, I'm being a dick," Dean says sheepishly. Cas's posture relaxes, his hands slipping back into his lap. "Can I ask why, though? Like, it's cool, you don't have to tell me..."

Cas rests his elbows on the table. He stares down at his half-finished toast, the butter having seeped in so much that the toast is soggy and unappetising. He picks at the crust and eats it anyway. 

"I don't like myself when I'm drunk," he says, talking to his toast rather than Dean. "Sometimes, I..." He pauses, swallows, then continues, "Sometimes I have dark thoughts. About myself, about...life. When I'm sober, I know how to counter these thoughts." He looks at Dean, and taps at his temple pointedly. "It gets complicated up here, sometimes."

Dean nods, eyes wide, his attention unwavering. 

"But if I drink too much, things get...messy." He's just playing with his food now, tapping it around his plate in mindless circles. "At first it's enjoyable, mostly. Lack of inhibitions can be quite freeing, but..." He laughs in that self-deprecating way, the kind that Dean recognises all too well. "I'm not a happy drunk, let's put it that way."

"Right."

"I'm a pathetic drunk," Cas says, shaking his head. "Alcohol makes me miserable by the end of the night. I've actually cried once, and I  _ never  _ cry." He offers Dean a sheepish smile. "That's why I don't drink."

"Yeah," Dean says, thoughtful. "Yeah, fair enough."

"But Dean, all I'm saying," Cas says, sitting up straighter. "Don't drink because you feel obligated to. If you think it'll make you do something you'll regret, why do it?"

Dean finds himself agreeing, because of course Cas is right ― dude's strangely wise. There's a war going on inside him, though: sobriety's logic vs. alcohol's release.

They walk home together, as they so often do. The pair of them are quiet, lost in their own wandering thoughts, their shoulders brushing together.

In the apartment block, when they reach the top landing, Cas hovers there uncertainly. He's staring at Dean, hands buried in his pockets.

"If you're looking for an excuse to get out of that dinner tomorrow, you could say you have plans," Cas suggests.

"But I don't have plans," Dean huffs. He never has plans. Does laying around in your underwear count as plans?

"So, let's make plans," Cas says, taking a step closer. "Do you want to come over tomorrow night?"

Immediately, Dean's insides twist into nervous knots. "Uh, I..."

"We can order takeout. Watch a movie." His lips quirk into a warm smile."You like  _ Captain America _ , don't you? My sister lent me a copy of it. I haven't watched it yet."

"I've seen it six times," Dean says in half-hearted protest.  _ You've already made plans with Charlie _ , he reminds himself. "I'll quote every line in real time. You'll hate me for it."

"Quote away. It'll be part of the experience," Cas says, smile widening. That smile is very encouraging, always has been. "So, what do you think?"

He thinks that it would be fun. Hanging out with Cas is never dull. Dean can relax, be himself, and talk to Cas about anything. They can have a night in together, plus Dean's never been inside Cas's apartment before. Abercrombie's expensive, too, so cheap takeout will be far kinder to Dean's bank account. And, well, even though he's seen Captain America so many times it's embarrassing, he'll watch it twenty times more if Cas wanted to. 

Which leads him to his next thought ― he thinks this might be a date. Sure, he's only ever been with girls, but he recognises attraction when he sees it. Cas can be a real enigma sometimes, but he's noticed the way his gaze lingers. And, well,  _ shit _ , Dean sure as hell has noticed Cas. He's flat-chested and lacking in curves, and he's certainly hairier than what Dean's used to, but the guy's really good-looking for a dude. Good-looking is a bit of an understatement, really, but it's the most Dean's willing to admit, even to himself.

And there's the big problem with all of this: Dean's straight. Or, at the very least, he  _ wants  _ to be. Blowing off his friends for 'dinner and movie' with his very male friend wouldn't be the most heterosexual thing that Dean's ever done in his life. 

His recent conversation with Charlie, that light-hearted teasing, comes to mind. But his brain doesn't stop there, going further back into the deep recesses of his memories.

The voice of his long-dead father growls, " _ Are you a man or not?" _

"I can't," Dean says, his words quiet. Watching the excitement flicker out of Cas's eyes makes his chest ache. "Sounds nice and all, but I already made plans, and I'm not gonna bail." He stares at his feet, not quite brave enough to meet those sad eyes. "Maybe some other time."

"Okay," Cas says, his voice a little strained. Dean watches him shuffle his weight from foot to foot. "Some other time, then." 

"Yeah, sure thing."

"Okay."

"Yeah."

"I better get back to work." His feet pivot in a half-circle. "Thank you for breakfast. Bye, Dean."

"Bye," Dean says, finally looking up. He stares at Cas's retreating back until there’s a door blocking his view.

By the time he's inside his own apartment, the disappointment in his chest has changed into something heavy and miserable.

\---

Andrea's birthday goes exactly how he expects it to.

He tried to adhere to Cas's advice, he really did. For the first round of drinks, he requested a plain old Coke, much to the surprise of his friends. Charlie, Benny and Andrea had all gawked at him while Gordon ― fucking  _ Gordon ―  _ snorted and said something about him going soft.

When his coke arrived, Dean wanted to be swallowed up by the floor. He tossed back his drink in record time.

Charlie, meanwhile, offered him a sip of a bright blue cocktail she had ordered. A sip wouldn't  hurt, he reasoned. It had vodka in it, which Dean normally loathes, but the fruity taste masked it pretty well. When it was time for the next round, Charlie said she'd buy him one.  _ Can't turn down a free drink _ ,  _ right? _

By the time their entrees had arrived, Dean was gulping down his second cocktail. He was paying less and less attention to Gordon's jabs at his masculinity, opting to focus on the warmth spreading through his veins, the pub's atmosphere, the lively chatter at their table.

Eventually, he moved onto beer. Then bourbon. Sure, he was going pretty hard for a birthday dinner, but he finally felt relaxed, like he could enjoy himself. Be the life of the party.

While everyone else is making their way through dessert, someone ― it was a guy from their table, but Dean's not sure who ― suggests they leave early, try and get into some club that a friend of his works at.  _ It's just across the street _ , he'd said. Good music, cheap drinks, pretty girls. 

Dean allowed himself to be led out of Abercrombie. Half the group stayed behind. He's not sure if he said goodbye to Andrea or not.

He remembers jumping the queue with his apparent new friends. The music had been loud, booming, rattling his skull with the vibrations. There had been bright, colourful lights and noise, so much noise that it drowned out the last of his coherent thoughts. Alcohol had sloshed around his stomach in constant loops. At some point, outside on the street, he'd vomited on a post office box.

Skip forward to now and he's in bed ―  _ his  _ bed, he's pretty sure ― dragging himself out of weird, abstract dreams about shapes and dark figures. There's rustling, a weight sagging near his feet, the mattress bouncing slightly. He peels his eyes open and sees the back of a girl with dark hair and olive skin, her bare shoulders dotted with freckles. He doesn't know who she is. The fact that she's here must mean they had sex, but he sure as hell doesn't remember any of it.

Dean sits up and his entire world spins. Groaning, he rests his forehead in his hands. When he finally notices he's naked, he hikes the bedsheets up around his waist.

"Hi," the woman says in a whisper. She has wide hazel eyes and a sweet face. "Uh, sorry, I don't know your name."

"Doesn't matter," Dean mutters into his hand. "You good to get home?"

"Yes, I'll be fine," she sighs, fiddling around with the straps of her sandals. When she moves off the bed, Dean expects to hear the door closing, but instead he looks up to find her standing in front of him, looking tense.

"You okay?"

She bites her lip. In response, she holds up her hand, and Dean's stomach twists: there's a golden band on her finger. 

"You're married?"

"Engaged," she corrects. "So, this―" she gestures between them, "―never happened. This was a mistake. Please do not try and contact me again, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. Shit, this is low, even for him. Taking home someone who's engaged? Had she been wearing her ring last night?

"I'm serious," she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Do  _ not  _ contact me again."

"I get it," he tells her, waving a hand impatiently. "Dirty little secret, whatever. You won't hear from me ever again. Now," he says, re-adjusting himself so he's curled on his side, facing the wall, "I'm going back to sleep."

He hears her huff. The next thirty seconds are filled with her pacing around the room, searching for anymore of her belongings, muttering anxiously to herself, and then the pointed slam of the front door. His headache pulses angrily.

Sleep claims him shortly after, and he's damn grateful for it.


	4. Chapter 4

For almost a week, Dean mopes around his apartment. Benny won't return his messages. He knows he screwed up ― bailing on Andrea's birthday was a pretty selfish thing to do. Andrea means the world to Benny, and Benny means a lot to Dean, which begs the question of _why is Dean such an asshole, seriously?_ Even Charlie is responding in short, clipped sentences. None of her texts have a single emoji in them. She must be pretty pissed at him.  
  
He wants to make things right somehow. Kinda difficult considering he doesn't have the balls to call Benny and apologise, but that's just the way he's always been: a shitty communicator, and an all-round shitty person.  
  
Dean calls in sick twice this week. Ellen's not impressed; he doesn't sound sick. He thinks he might be coming down with something though, he just can't quite pinpoint the symptoms. It doesn't feel like a cold. Maybe the flu?  
  
He's tired all the time, his limbs feel heavy, and there's this strange, sticky headache that won't go away. Every time he thinks about Benny and Andrea, his body stops cooperating; trying to shower or eat or get out of bed suddenly seem impossible. Which is unfortunate, considering that particular topic has been running around his mind in non-stop circles, and food and cleanliness are pretty much vital to being a semi-functional human being.  
  
His fridge is barren once again. The dishes are piled up in the sink, causing a foul stench to permeate the apartment. Dean just doesn't have the energy for it. It's four o'clock in the afternoon and he's been on the couch for close to thirty-six hours now, only rising to use the toilet. His bathroom's starting to stink, too. He's starting to stink, as a matter of fact ― he's been wearing the same shirt and sweatpants for two days now.  
  
A firm knock to his front door interrupts his brooding. Dean remains where he is, stuck to his couch, but the knocking persists. With a profound amount of effort (He must be sick, surely) he pulls himself upright.  
  
Cas is on the other side, as it turns out. When Dean greets him, Cas's nose wrinkles just a little. Dean must reek. He's so embarrassed he almost closes the door on him, but he's potentially ruined enough friendships this week.  
  
"Dean?" Cas is frowning at him with concern. "You look...ill."  
  
Dean laughs humourlessly. "Thanks for the compliment."  
  
"Sorry," Cas says, scratching the back of his head. "That was rude. Are you alright? I was worried."  
  
"Worried? Why?"  
  
"Well, I haven't seen you around much. I can hear your front door slam when you're leaving, and..." He chews his lip. "I hadn't heard it in a while."  
  
"Keeping tabs on me?" Dean asks, his tone more accusatory than what he was going for.  
  
Cas shrugs, taking a small step back. "We're friends. I care about you." Something pathetic flutters in Dean's chest. "I was worried, but I can go if you're busy―"  
  
"I'm not busy, Cas," he sighs, massaging his forehead. "I appreciate the concern, really. This week has just been...it's sucked some serious balls."  
  
Cas tilts his head. "Did something happen?"  
  
"Well..." He exhales, deliberating, then figures he might as well just say it. "I fucked up that birthday thing, as expected. Got inappropriately drunk and potentially screwed up some important friendships. Just another week, you know?" He gestures flippantly. "What are ya gonna do? C'est la vie, etcetera."  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Cas says, and he sounds far too serious. Dean doesn't have the energy for serious.

"Not really," Dean admits. "I'm in the process of transforming into a couch potato, and potatoes don't really _have_ feelings to talk about, so..."  
  
"Right," Cas says, smirking a little. "Makes sense. Well―" he squares his shoulders, tilts his chin up, "―I was on my way out to go jogging."  
  
For the first time, Dean notices that Cas is adorned in workout clothes, including a ratty t-shirt and tight spandex pants. Dean forces himself to not linger on those pants for too long; they don't leave much to the imagination.  
  
"Enjoy," Dean says dryly.  
  
"You should come with me." Dean kind of expected that. "I go jogging at that nice park on William Street. Hardly anyone will be there around this time. This town's full of morning marathoners."  
  
"Uh, sorry, but I don't do jogging," Dean says, his mind drifting to the comfort of his couch.  
  
"Then we'll walk," Cas challenges, smiling.  
  
Dean groans, swaying into the doorframe. "Caaaas, don't make me," he whines.  
  
"I'm not making you," Cas admonishes. "You want to, you just haven't realised it yet."  
  
"That sounds like a trick."  
  
"It's not a trick. It's a fact."  
  
"Now it sounds even _more_ like a trick."  
  
"Oh, come on," Cas says, clapping him on the shoulder. Stupidly, Dean leans into the touch. He's been alone for too long. "We could both do with some fresh air, right?"  
  
The stale air of his apartment is drifting into the hallway. Dean notices it, and Cas must _definitely_ notice it.  
  
Dean doesn't really have an argument. He's not busy, and he enjoys Cas's company a lot, but there's this undercurrent of _don't-want-to_ that he can't shake.  
  
Then again, Cas looks like he'll physically drag him out of the apartment if he says no. You can't turn down someone who looks strong enough to carry you down three flights of stairs. That's just asking for trouble.  
  
"Fine," Dean sighs. Cas's smile brightens. "I'm coming, but I need to change."  
  
"Yes, that's probably for the best," Cas says, nose wrinkling a little.  
  
Dean flips him the bird.

\---

Once he's outside, strolling leisurely along the footpath, Dean has no idea why he spent so much time inside in the first place.

The sun is warm and gentle on his skin, combatting the chilly spring air. There are ponds scattered around the park, with ducks floating merrily across the surface, diving down occasionally for a snack. What's more, there's hardly anyone around, just him and Cas and the pristine grass of Victoria Park.

Cas makes him jog a little. "From here to that lamp post," he'll say, and then he'll be off, Dean trailing behind him at a slower pace. He _does_ try to keep up with him, but apparently Cas does this a lot. Dean doesn't remember the last time he did exercise for the sake of it.

There's a pleasant rush of endorphins whirling around his body now, silencing those unhappy grumblings that have been lurking in his mind all week. He feels light; freer than he's been in a while now. He's sweaty and smelly but the ache in his muscles is welcome. He inhales deeply, the air cool and sweet.

Cas is leaning against a tall tree, watching the ducks swimming about in lazy circles. He's panting, chest rising and falling, his cheeks flushed. It's a good look on him, Dean's not ashamed to admit.

Once he's caught up, Cas turns to him. He's grinning, a twinkle in his eye. "Worth coming out?"

Dean smirks. "Nup, this is terrible," he says. Cas playfully whacks him on the arm. "I'm kidding! This is great, Cas."

Cas smile broadens. "I'm glad."

He kicks off the tree and stands a few feet away, giving himself enough space to stretch. He starts with his arms and then his back, his spine arching into the shape of a 'C'. Dean watches him, his gaze drifting along Cas's back and across to the wide expanse of his chest. His t-shirt is lifting up, revealing a firm belly.

To Dean's surprise, his own body starts reacting: his lips are suddenly too dry, and there's thick, heated arousal rolling southward, pooling around his pelvis. It's a good thing he's not wearing spandex.

He blinks, takes a deep breath. _What the hell?_

"You should stretch too, Dean," Cas tells him, jerking Dean out of his thoughts. "Or you'll be sore tomorrow."

"Right," Dean says, shaking himself.

They're quiet while they stretch, Dean taking the opportunity to ponder what just happened. He was just watching one of his friends ― a _man_ , he reminds himself ― and suddenly he's popping a half-boner in the middle of a public area. Sure, Dean can admit that Cas is an attractive guy, at least aesthetically. But is he attracted to Cas? Like, _sexually_ attracted?

The only answer he really has to that question is a timid _maybe?_

While Cas disappears to fetch them bottles of water from the nearby convenience store, Dean stands beneath the shade of the tree, puzzled. When Cas finally returns, Dean still hasn't sorted out his jumbled thoughts, and opts to cast them aside when Cas asks him if something's wrong.

On their way back, the sun is a vibrant orange, the skies turning pink and yellow. Cas is quiet, his brow furrowed. Dean doesn't mind silence, never has when it comes to Cas. The only sound comes from the scuff of their sneakers, the occasional car driving past. Dean takes great big gulps from his bottle, relishing in the icy water making its way down into his belly. It's a wonderful feeling, just to cool down after a healthy dose of exercise.

He'd forgotten how rewarding jogging can be. No wonder Sam does it so often, although he's also the kind of guy who drinks kale smoothies for breakfast. Yuck.

As they're approaching their apartment building, Cas says, "Dean?"

"What's up?"

"Are you free tonight?" They both come to a stop near the letterbox. Cas is checking if he has mail, keeping his focus on that rather than Dean.

"Uh, yeah, should be." Dean scratches his head. An odd case of nerves starts squirming in his stomach. "I'm not working until Saturday."

Cas is perusing through his letters ― bills, by the looks of it ― nodding at them. "Do you want to do something? Dinner, maybe?"

This is oddly reminiscent of last week, when Dean had turned him down. Last time he had an obligation to Benny and Charlie, but now his entire schedule is free. He's not sure how to feel. He and Cas just hang out, there's no formal questions about it. They just do things when they feel like it. 

This sounds like a date. If Cas was a girl, Dean would be _positive_ that it's a date.

"Dinner, huh? What did you have in mind?"

Cas shrugs, his attention still focused on his mail, even though he's just cycling through the same three letters over and over again.

Dean watches his cheeks turn pink. It's kind of endearing, actually.

"We could go out," Cas says uncertainly. "Thai, maybe? I'm not a good cook, as you know. We could order takeout if you wanted to stay in. I've still got Captain America we could watch, if, uh..." Cas blinks, then finally looks Dean in the eye. "If you, uh, want to come over, or..."

Cas is struggling; he's not good at this. Dean knows that this isn't something he does often. He finds himself smiling at Cas's floundering.

Dean should say no. Cas is a guy. Dean doesn't do guys, never has. Sure, he looks at them sometimes, but dating a guy means _complicated,_ and Dean does _not_ do complicated.

But Cas is...he's _something_. He's important to Dean, and he's got a nice face, and said face is looking at him so _earnestly_.

"Okay, how about this," Dean says, "We'll stay in. I'll come over. _But_ , I've had way too much takeout this week. Let me cook." Dean raises his eyebrows. "What do you say?"

Cas's smile lights up his whole face. There's a helpless tug beneath Dean's ribcage and _damn it_ , why does Cas make him feel like this?

"I'd like that. What do you want to make?"

Dean shrugs. "Let's hit up the grocery store. I'll decide on the way."

\---

He goes for a chicken and tomato bake. Cas informs him that he owns virtually _zero_ cookware, but Dean can easily bring over some of his own pots and pans.

"You have an oven though, right?"

"Yes, it came with the apartment," Cas says sheepishly.

Now they're back home in their respective apartments, the welcoming stench nearly bowling him over when Dean walks in. Pinching his nose, he pulls out a mostly empty can of air freshener and sprays it around his kitchen. It's only five-thirty so Dean figures he'll give the dishes a scrub down and take a nice long shower once he's emptied the trash can.

By six o'clock he's finally stripping off, stepping into the welcoming heat of the shower. His body doesn't ache yet but his muscles feel tired and wobbly. The hot water pulls a sigh from him.

He's in the middle of soaping up, his hands moving in circles around his pelvis and thighs, that he starts to wonder what Cas's hands would feel like against his skin. What are his hands like? Big like Dean's, he recalls, but more angular. Softer, not calloused. Anytime he touches something he's quietly reverent about it, like everything is precious, breakable. He'd touch Dean the same way.

For a moment, he lets himself think his hands are Cas's instead, rubbing along skin, kneading attentively at sore muscles, slipping lower down, taking him in hand and grasping firmly-

His thoughts come to a screeching halt once he realises what he's doing, what he's _imagining_ , and _Christ almighty_ why does he keep thinking about Cas like this? Why does he feel that way about him? Why did he agree to this stupid date?

Dean rests his forehead against the cold tiles, breathing slowly. His pulse is beating desperately in his palms, his hands clenched into fists. Eyes closed, he concentrates on the water soaking his back, the sound of water racing down the drain.

"Chill out," he grumbles to himself.

He's not sure how much time passes, but eventually the temperature starts to turn lukewarm, so he's been in here way too long. Sighing, he turns the taps and steps out, slipping a towel around his waist.

He carries himself to the bedroom and sits heavily on the bed, mattress sagging under him. He's dripping onto the carpet and the sheets, but he doesn't really care at the moment. He rubs his eyes, rests his face in his hands, breathing slowly. Inhale, exhale. Sammy would be damn proud.

Cool darkness presses against his eyelids. The tension in his shoulders, in his lungs, slowly recedes. His shoulders droop and his hands fall into his lap. His gaze is directed at the wall opposite him. All of a sudden he's drained, tired and empty.

He finds his phone next to his pillow, the time displayed as 18:46. Ah, crap. He should have been at Cas's already.

He contemplates calling Charlie, wondering if there's anything she could say to help him, reassure him that what he's feeling for Cas is _okay,_ it's okay to feel this way, this is _normal_. Their friendship is still strained, however, so he tosses his phone behind him and gets to his feet.

Shirt selection is annoyingly complicated. Finding a good pair of blue jeans was easy enough, but navigating the concepts of too formal verses casual verses smart-casual is giving him a headache. Eventually, he throws on a simple Henley (it's not too cold out), locates his phone and wallet and heads out the door. With a curse, he spins on his heel and marches straight back inside to grab everything he needs for dinner.

When Cas answers the door, it's past seven o'clock and Dean's heart is thumping so loudly he's _positive_ Cas must hear it. Relief passes over Cas's face, but then it's quickly replaced by concern.

"Are you alright?"

Dean's not entirely sure how to answer that. "Yeah, m'just tired. Sorry, I'm a little late." Dean huffs. "I live next door and I'm late. Jesus."

Cas cocks his head to the side, brows knitted with worry. "If you're not up for this, we can reschedule―"

He shakes his head. Cas doesn't deserve his crap. Besides, even if he's jittery with nerves, there's a huge part of him that _wants_ to be here. He's sick of being alone on his dingy couch with boring ass TV shows he's watched a million times over.

"Nope, I'm in," Dean says, fixing on a smile. He holds up a casserole dish, utensils rolling around inside it. "Point me at the kitchen. Let's do this."

Before Cas can reply, there's a rather pointed meow coming from somewhere near his feet. Cupcake's staring up at him with her lamp-like eyes, eying him curiously. She rubs her face against his ankle, and Dean tries not to picture how much fur contaminates this apartment.

"Shit, sorry," Cas says, scooping her up. She meows unhappily. "I put her in my room but she's become quite talented at opening doors. Come on," he says to her, heading inside. "Let's get you back in there. Come in, Dean!" he adds over his shoulder, disappearing down the hallway.

Cas's apartment is an exact mirror image of Dean's. Everything's reversed: kitchen on the right, lounge room on the left, the hallway leading off to the bedroom and bathroom straight in the middle. Like Dean's, most of the furniture is from IKEA, from the couch to the TV cabinet to the teacups on the kitchen bench. Behind the couch are large piles of cardboard boxes, some sealed shut, others torn open. There's a small cabinet tucked in next to the TV with a bunch of photo frames, and a round coffee table with a single lit candle in the centre.

Dean stares at the candle and gulps. He sets the casserole dish on the kitchen bench, then squares his shoulders. Now cat-free, Cas is hovering behind him, frowning.

"So." Dean turns to him, smoothly masking his anxieties. "You wanna help?"

The recipe calls for about twenty minutes of preparation, although with Cas's aid, the chicken and onion are frying away within ten minutes. With the assurance that Cas can handle boiling the pasta, Dean focuses his attention on mixing in garlic and herbs, tossing everything together until it's time to add the passata. Not long after that, they're adding in the cooked pasta and oven-baked tomatoes, putting it all together in the casserole dish before slipping it all into the oven for ten minutes. Cas's smile is rather victorious.

While Dean pedantically checks the oven, Cas keeps himself occupied in the lounge room, connecting his laptop to the TV. Apparently he doesn't own a DVD player, but he borrowed a HDMI cord from his sister and hasn't returned it yet.

Cas ducks off to the bathroom at some point, and once the casserole is cooling on the counter, Dean grabs a beer from the fridge and checks out the apartment. He inspects the boxes behind the couch and discovers they're giant orders of blank t-shirts. Next to the linen cupboard is a rather large printing contraption, which Dean isn't brave enough to touch in case he breaks it.

He meanders over to the photographs by the TV, chuckling under his breath at each one. Cas looks awkward in most of them, his smile either forced or non-existent. There are a series of tiny polaroids where he's smiling, however, where it looks like it was taken in one of those Japanese photobooths with the quirky stickers. He's with a blue-eyed, pale-skinned girl with perfect teeth. Her hair is as red as Charlie's. Dean thinks it might be Cas's sister, Anna. 

The scuffing of bare feet alerts him to Cas's presence. "Is dinner ready?" 

"Yep," Dean says, taking a long gulp of beer. "All ready to go." 

"I'll serve up," Cas volunteers, already heading for the kitchen. "Take a seat, Dean." 

With a shrug, Dean makes himself comfortable on the couch. Cas brings out the pasta, the steam curling in the air between them. 

"Are you happy with the beer?"

Dean shakes the bottle, liquid sloshing about. It's already below the halfway mark; he should probably slow down. "You got something better?" Dean asks. 

Cas rubs his neck. "Well, I bought wine, uh. If you're interested." 

 _This is a date!_ his brain warns him, ever so helpful. Dean tells his brain to shut the hell up.

"White or red?"

"White. I don't like red very much." 

"I'm not a huge wine drinker, but I think I prefer white, so." Dean finishes off the beer, which Cas takes from him. "Hit me."

Soon they're both on the couch, pasta and wine before them. The opening sequence of Captain America is playing, the laptop whirring aggressively. Cas is taking delicate little sips of wine while Dean is scoffing down his pasta. His bowl's completely empty by the time the movie really starts. He tastes the wine, wrinkles his nose a little, then figures the aftertaste will easily grow on him. By the time Cas finishes off his own pasta, Dean's pouring his second glass.

There's a gooey kind of contentment warming his chest from the inside out. The apartment smells like food, not stale or smelly like his own. Beside him, Cas is a comforting presence. He's sitting closer to the middle of the couch, maybe an inch or two away from Dean's thigh. As the minutes tick by and the alcohol settles in, Dean finds himself caring less and less that Cas is a man, because the candle's casting a soft, orange glow across his face, and it's eye-catching, it's _inviting_. He kinda wants to touch him or make out with him, preferably both at the same time.

Alcohol is just an excuse, though. Truth be told (random panic attacks aside), Cas's gender never really bothered him that much. Well, it does on some level, but Dean thinks he might be able to get past it. He's attracted to Cas and it's not just because of his killer sense of humour ― aesthetically, he's pretty damn easy on the eyes, and Dean really wants to kiss him a whole lot, even if he didn't want to admit it until now.

In his peripheries, he can see Cas glancing at him periodically. He knows Cas is interested, and thanks to wine's liquid courage, Dean closes the gap between their legs. Body heat presses pleasantly from knee to hip. Emboldened, Dean slides an arm around the back of the couch, hovering behind Cas's shoulders.

Cas takes this move rather well. He curls in closer to Dean, knees tucked up on the couch, his head coming to rest on Dean's shoulder. Dean's heart beats that little bit faster, his mouth going dry. Once he finds his courage again, he circles his arm around Cas, pulling him in closer. A soft, happy sound escapes Cas's lips.

It's a picturesque moment. Maybe if he was sober, this would have been enough for him. As embarrassing as it is to admit, Dean loves affection, and he's rarely on the receiving end of anything remotely like this. The alcohol's making his blood buzz, however, and he finds himself wanting more as heat rolls down his body.

Ignoring the movie entirely, Dean directs his attention to Cas. His lips hover along Cas's cheek, not quite touching. His warm breath attracts Cas's attention quickly, and then they're both staring at one another, mouths a bare few centimetres apart.

"Cas," Dean exhales, his hands starting to shake. "Do―do you want―?"

He doesn't need to finish ― Cas closes the gap, their lips fitting together sweetly.

Suddenly, Dean feels so much at once: the light brush of Cas's eyelashes, the moist press of his mouth, his slightly sweaty palm cupping Dean's neck. It seems ridiculous, in hindsight, to deny this for so long. Cas is so warm, filling him up, makes his chest expand and he's breathing in so _much_. He feels _alive_ , he feels light, he feels incredible. _Cas_ is incredible.

They break apart but then Dean's diving back in, their lips parting. Cas sighs into his mouth, eliciting goosebumps along Dean's neck. He explores Cas's face first, trailing hands along his jaw and cheeks, and then adventures up to his scalp, running fingers through his soft hair. Everything that he touches feels wonderful, and while his mind was once apprehensive, it's now chanting _more, more, more_.

His hands glide along Cas's shoulders, exploring the shape of his muscles and bones, the fabric of his shirt. He travels further, down Cas's sides, sweeping softly across his chest ― flat, muscular, _different_ but definitely _good_ ― and coming to rest above his belt. Cas keeps making these sounds into Dean's mouth, little huffs of contentment, and Dean's going crazy with it, wants to hear more, wants to make them _louder_.

Gently, Dean braces the back of Cas's head and guides him down, lays him out on the couch. Cas's eyes peel open, directing a half-lidded gaze at Dean. His hair's a mess, his shirt's rucked up and exposing his belly, and Dean feels his mouth water. He _wants_.

He captures Cas's lips again, climbing on top so that their chests are flush. Cas's arms snake around him, fingers wandering curiously along Dean's spine, kneading into muscle. Dean groans, licks at Cas's bottom lip. As his arousal mounts, he lines up his hips along Cas's thigh, and presses his erection down, moaning softly as pleasure sparks through his body.

Hands sweep from Dean's back to his shoulders, pushing a little. Cas mumbles something against his lips, but Dean doesn't know what. When Dean rolls his hips again, Cas breaks the kiss, pushing more urgently. "Dean, wait. Wait."

Once the words finally register, Dean springs back so fast his back smacks into the couch's arm. He hisses in pain, eyes clenched shut. "Christ, these IKEA couches _hurt!_ What the hell are they made of? _"_

Cas doesn't answer him. He's staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving. Eventually he drags himself into a sitting position, curling against the opposite arm. His eyes are downcast, blank.

Dean watches him silently, trying to gauge Cas's expression. He's got nothing. "You okay?" he asks. "I...did I go too far? I'm sorry," he says, suddenly needing to apologise. "I went too far, didn't I?" God, why is he such an asshole?

Cas shakes his head but doesn't answer. The TV continues to make a lot of noise, dramatic music sounding off, characters yelling and crying out. Cas rubs his palms over his face, then marches over to the laptop, pressing the spacebar with his toe so that the DVD pauses. He breathes out slowly before returning to the couch, sitting in the middle again.

Neither of them speak for a handful of minutes. Dean must burn a hole through the side of Cas's head from how hard he's staring, trying to pick apart his brain. Cas looks down, his shoulders sagging, his mouth a thin line. _What did he do?_ Dean keeps wondering, a weird sense of guilt rolling in his gut. _How'd he screw up this time?_

Finally, Cas enlightens him. "Dean, do you know what asexuality is?"

Dean blinks, because _what?_ What has that got to do with anything? "Uhh, you mean―? Well, I watched a documentary about sea animals one time, and some of them don't have, like, male and female sexes, but they still reproduce somehow―"

Cas visibly cringes, rubbing his eyes. "That's asexual reproduction," he mumbles, sounding disappointed.

Trying very hard not to feel offended, Dean says, "Err, then I guess I don't know what it is. What's...?"

"It's alright," Cas sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees, fingers knitted together tightly. "Not many people do. It's a sexuality, like being gay or bi," he explains, refusing to look at Dean. "It...it means, simply, 'a lack of sexual attraction'. To anyone. And that's me." He shrugs, his gaze directed at the carpet.

For a moment, Dean says nothing, mulling this over. Then his eyes widen in realisation, and suddenly he wants to run from the room. "Wait, are you saying you're not attracted to me?"

Cas _does_ look at him then, and his eyes are a tad bright. "No! Wait, it's hard to explain. Please hear me out," he says, half-begging. "I've...I don't feel _sexual_ attraction, although I can find people aesthetically pleasing. I find _you_ aesthetically, um, quite breathtaking," he says, and Dean’s suddenly fighting back a blush. "I like you a lot, Dean, but like everyone else, I don't want to...to do..." He flounders.

"You don't want to have sex with me?"

"No, not really," he says, chuckling mirthlessly. "I've never wanted to have sex with anyone, and I probably never will. Well, I mean, sexuality is a spectrum, and it can be quite fluid, but in all my twenty-eight years of existence, _no_ , I've never wanted to have sex with anyone, so I probably never will."

"So..." Dean scratches his head, shrinking in on himself. "So what does that make...this?" He gestures between them, then sweeps a hand around the room, indicating the food, the candle, the undoubtedly expensive wine. "Is this...I mean, you seemed to be pretty into us kissing five minutes ago."

"Yes," Cas nods emphatically. "Yes, you're right, and that's what I mean ― I like you, I would very much like to kiss you, well, all the time, if that was permissible. And I enjoy spending time with you, and you're a very good cook, and I―I think I've fallen for you," he admits, and Dean melts a little. "Which is a new experience for me. I've never fallen for anyone before. But not in a sexual way, in―in a romantic way, if that makes sense. I hope. Does it?" He looks at him, eyes wide and worried. "I don't know if I'm making sense."

"I..." Dean drags a palm through his hair, frowning hard. He thinks he understands, but he's never met anyone like Cas before. He's still trying to wrap his head around it all. "Yeah, I think so. You don't wanna get in my pants, you wanna...well, go on dates and stuff. Make out a bit. But no sex."

At first, Cas seems relieved ― happy that Dean understands ― but then his shoulders slump, and he's staring at the floor again. "Yes," he says softly. His eyes are glassy. "Basically, yes, but it's obvious that I'm being ridiculous."

Dean frowns, leaning forward, trying to see Cas's face. "Ridiculous how?"

"I'm expecting you to be...to be okay with that idea," Cas says, sitting up, staring at anything other than Dean. His hands grip each other tighter, knuckles turning white. "You like sex," he says, and Dean nods, somewhat embarrassed that they're talking about this. "Sex is a part of a relationship for you. It's something that you do, and it's not something that you can't be expected to give up."

Dean says nothing, suddenly unsure of what to say. Because yeah, Cas is right, Dean _does_ like sex, and sex tends to go hand in hand with what few proper relationships he's ever had. Whether he can live without it, well, he doesn't know about that.

In any event, Cas looks outright depressed right now. Dean wants that sadness gone, but he's not sure how to help get rid of it.

"Cas..."

"This whole thing was a bad idea," Cas huffs, chuckling to himself. "You're not asexual, so a date for you involves the possibility of sex, and I can't give that you. I wasn’t trying to lead you on!" Cas says, suddenly horrified.

"No, wait, slow down! It's okay!" Dean raises his palms, trying to placate. Cas's expression is wild, a mixture of upsetting emotions flitting across his face. "Cas, I didn't come over expecting sex, okay? Hell, why don't we just―" He stands, takes two long strides to the laptop and crouches on the floor. "―Put the movie back on, and we can talk about everything after, okay? We don't have to do anything. I'm not expecting sex from you." He creeps closer to Cas, reaching for his hands across the coffee table. Cas retreats further into the couch. "Cas, come on..."

"No, I think we should...I think we should stop here." He nods decisively. "Yes, I think this was a mistake."

Dean's heart sinks. "Cas, it's okay. Look at me. Please?"

Cas is on his feet though, gathering up their bowls and wine glasses, heading for the kitchen. "It was foolish of me to think this would work," he says, more to himself than to Dean. "I'll pack up this pasta and you can get going. It's pretty late anyway, I have to go to the post office tomorrow. They close early on Fridays."

Despite his protests, Cas keeps bustling about, gathering up Dean's things until a casserole dish is being shoved into Dean's arms. Cas guides him to the front door, opening it for him. Once out on the landing, Dean turns back to him, frustrated. "Cas, you need to calm down, okay? This isn't a big deal."

Cas is still shaking his head though, his brain in some kind of panicked frenzy. Dean wants to comfort him but the casserole dish is heavy with pasta, and he can't balance it one-handed.

"Cas," Dean says softly, trying to keep his voice low, keep it from echoing in the building. "Cas, please look at me."

Finally Cas does, his eyes still terribly bright, like he's on the verge of tears but absolutely forbids his body from releasing them. He exhales, his breath harsh and uneven, and then he's cupping Dean's cheek, his palm clammy but warm.

"You're wonderful," Cas tells him. "I'm sorry. This was a mistake."

"No, it's not," Dean says, trying desperately to keep the frustration out of his voice. He's just so confused, he can't for the life of him understand why Cas has snapped all of a sudden, why he's on the brink of some sort of breakdown and is vehemently pushing Dean away. "This wasn't a mistake, Cas. Just let me back in, yeah? You're upset. I'll take care of you."

Cas looks at him for a long while, assessing. Then, he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on his cheek. In the corner of his mouth, really. Dean chases his lips, but Cas moves too fast.

"Bye, Dean," he says, and shuts the door in his face.

Dean stands out there in the hall, reeling from the dismissal. The pasta turns cold before he finally returns to his apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometime around midday, Dean's on his way out the front door when his phone rings. When he checks the caller I.D. it says _Sam_.

Dean sighs. He's not in the mood for this, but it's been _weeks_ since he and Sam have spoken, so he answers just before it goes to voicemail.

"Sam?"

"Dean, hey!

"Sam's voice is cheerful. "Long time no talk."

"Yeah, no kidding." Dean closes the door and heads for the couch, clearing away empty food wrappers so he can sit down. "I was just heading out. Not the greatest timing, Sammy, as per usual."

Sam chuckles. _"_ Then I'll make this quick, I guess." He clears his throat. "So, guess what? I'm coming to visit!"

Dean nearly chokes. "Wait, really? Why?"

"Seriously, Dean? _"_ He huffs. He can practically _hear_ the bitchface Sam's making. _"_ You sound thrilled. Don’t you know what the date is?"

"Sam, I barely know what _day_ it is. All I know is I'm working today and tomorrow, too." Dean pauses, tries to remember what month they're in. "Oh. Your birthday's coming up, right?"

"Well, duh. Thanks for caring, though _."_

"Dude, shut up. I took care of every single one of your birthdays for the first eighteen years of your life. I deserve to forget one every once in a while."

"Whatever," Sam scoffs. "Anyway, clear your calendar. I'm flying down in three weeks. Oh, and I'm bringing Jess with me."

"You mean the girl you've been dating for the past three years that I've never met?" Dean says, shaking his head. "I'm telling you, man, if she doesn't get my seal of approval, you better dump her ass."

"You'll love her," he assures him. "And even if you don't, I don't care."

"Wow."

"Yep."

"Show me some goddamn respect. I raised you!"

Sam laughs. _"_ Trust me, Dean, you guys'll get on great. Anyway, I just wanted to ask ― can Jess and I crash at your place while we're down?"

Heat creeps up Dean's neck. He glances around his apartment, which is still trashed, air so stale it's sending the little cactus on his window into an early grave. He needs to water that thing. And pour about five tonnes of bleach around his apartment to wash away the stench. Even then, it'll probably never get clean.

"Uh, sure," Dean says, scraping nails through his hair. "No problem."

\---

Cas's door has remain firmly closed for the past few days. Figuring that he's given him enough space, Dean approaches the door, ringing his hands anxiously. After several minutes of second guessing himself, Dean finds the courage to knock. He waits a minute, and when Cas doesn't answer, he knocks again, harder.

On the third round of knocking, Cas finally answers. He seems relatively put together, although the bruises under his eyes indicate otherwise.

"Hello, Dean," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey, how ya doing?" Dean fixes a smile on his face. "I was gonna grab some breakfast. I've got a serious craving for bacon and maple syrup. You in?"

The smile Cas offers is feeble at best. He looks away, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. "No, I'm not feeling too well," he says, a tiny flicker of guilt crossing his features. "I don't think I could stomach breakfast right now."

"How about coffee then?" Dean grins, waggling his eyebrows. "There's a place across the road that does some of those pumpkin spice lattes. You ever try one before?"

Cas shakes his head, his smile turning sad. "No, maybe another time. I think I should probably go back to sleep."

"Right. I woke you," Dean winces. "Sorry."

"It's midday," Cas chuckles. "You weren't to know." His gaze is soft when he meets Dean's eyes, and it sets off a pang of yearning in Dean's chest. "Have a good day, Dean."

"Yeah, back at ya," Dean says, all false cheer. He's barely raised his arm to wave before the door's being closed in his face again.

_Well, shit_ , he thinks, trodding glumly down the stairs. Another breakfast alone, then.

\---

After putting it off for nearly two weeks now, the coffee is strong enough to jolt him into action. He locates Benny's number and hits Call.

Benny picks up quickly enough. _"_ Well howdy, stranger."

"Don't hang up," Dean says urgently. "Benny, man. I gotta apologise."

"No sense apologising to me," he drawls. _"_ You can call again this afternoon. Andrea will be home then."

"Ah, damn it," Dean mumbles, rubbing at his eyes in aggravation. "Benny, I screwed up. I'll apologise to Andrea in person, okay? I'll make this right somehow. I just wanted to make sure we're cool."

Benny huffs, his breath rasping against the phone receiver. _"_ You're like a brother to me, Dean. Relax. You won't get rid of me that easily."

"Right," Dean says, and it's as if all of the tension in his body releases at once. Dean rolls his shoulders, adjusts his grip on the phone. "That's―that's good to hear, man. I needed to hear you say that."

"You messed up, but it ain't a big deal. We'll work it out. You just apologise to Andrea, and y'know ― you probably don't wanna hear this ― but you gotta get a handle on that drinking problem of yours."

"I know," Dean says, nursing the beginnings of a headache. This conversation alone makes him want a drink. "Yeah, Benny. I know."

_"_ Good. Admittance is the first step," Benny chuckles. "It'll be alright, brother."

Dean nods, even though Benny can't see it. Probably a good thing, actually ― he can't see the uncertainty in Dean's eyes, either.

\---

The following day, Dean's more fatigued than usual. He got enough sleep, he didn't overwork himself on the floor yesterday, but he's so damn tired. Exhaustion sits deep in his bones. Unfortunately, he's got another shift this afternoon.

After sitting on his bed in a stupor for thirty minutes, he snags his phone off the bedside table. He texts Cas, asks him out to breakfast again: _Or lunch? I think the cool kids are calling it Brunch nowadays..._

Naturally, he gets rejected again. _Still sick. Maybe another day._ God, does no one want to spend time with him anymore?

Before he leaves, he adds liquor to his coffee. It's cheap and nasty and it tastes absolutely _repulsive._ He drinks the whole thing.

Each shift he finds himself drowning in his thoughts, the monotony of packing shelves and unboxing stock making it easy for him to zone out. When there's no customers around, Dean slips into self-loathing like it's a second skin, hatred chasing itself around in circles until he's dizzy with it.

He starts questioning everything: whether Benny genuinely wants to fix things between them, or if he just doesn't have the heart to give Dean the flick; whether Charlie's chipper text the other day means that she's forgiven him or if she's still holding a grudge; whether Sam's spending his birthday with Dean because he feels obligated to, not because he missed him; and maybe Cas was never attracted to Dean at all, not even in a _romantic_ sense ― Dean went too far and Cas wants nothing more to do with him, so he kicked him out.

The doubt weighs on him, makes his chest feel heavy, his stomach turn sick. Two hours before his shift's supposed to end, he tells Ellen he's going home.

There's sympathy in her eyes, but her words are harsh. "If you don't want these shifts, Dean, I'm more than happy to give them to someone else. You haven't exactly been making an effort recently."

"I know," Dean murmurs, keeping his back turned from her. He grabs his phone out of his locker and brushes past her. "I've got a headache. I'll be in tomorrow."

"You better," she warns him. He raises a hand in acknowledgement.

\---

Miraculously, he makes it through to Monday, his day off. He doesn't have to go back to work until Thursday, so he hits up the bottle shop the moment the store's open. His arms laden with beer and spirits, he leaves the shop feeling giddy. The conversation with Benny seems like a distant, foggy memory now. Any leftover guilt disappears once he's draining the remnants of a bottle of tequila.

It's close to midnight when he exits his apartment once more, figuring he'll grab a kebab from across the road. He'll come to regret it but he needs comfort food, like, _yesterday_.

He's on the second set of stairs when his drunk mind tells him to stop. He pauses, one foot hovering the air. He nearly topples over into the handrail. Half a minute passes, Dean swaying indecisively, and then he's hurrying back upstairs as fast as his uncooperative legs can carry him.

He raps loudly on Cas's door, puffing out his chest. This is it, he's gonna win Cas back, beg him to at the very least _talk_ to him because _Jesus Christ,_ he's losing his mind out here. His whole goddamn life is splitting at the seams. Cas'll know how to stitch him back up.

The door swings inward, and it's a good thing his tongue gets stuck to the roof his mouth because he's greeted not by Cas, but by a recognisable redhead. It's not Charlie ― although his addled brain thinks that it is for a brief moment ― it's the woman from the polaroid picture.

"Anna?" His tongue is sticky.

"Ah," she says, carefully taking a step back. "Are you Dean?"

"Cas toldja about me?" Dean grins lasciviously. "He's totally got a soft spot for me, ole' Cas."

She chuckles lowly. "Yes, he told me quite a bit about you."

"Is he here?" he asks, his tone suddenly urgent. "He won't talk to me. Is he okay? I miss him," Dean sighs, head flopping forward.

"He's okay, but I think you should come back another time."

Dean's head snaps up so quickly that the world turns upside down. "Whoa, okay, that hurt. But wh―why? Did I do somethin'?"

Instead of answering, she gives him a pointed look from head to toe. Curious, he looks down. Oh, right. He's wearing boxers and a stained t-shirt. Wait, hadn't he been heading outside to get a kebab? Shouldn't he have put pants on? Dean contemplates this with a serious frown.

"I'll go get dressed," Dean tells her. "Trust me, I'ma...I'm totally get it. This is, like, inappropriate and whatnot." He gives her the thumbs up. "I'll be back."

"Dean, I think you should go to bed," she says, her hand landing firmly on her hip.

"Whaaat? No way! I'm totally awake right now. You're not my mom." He points at her accusingly. "...Are you?" She tries not to laugh, shaking her head. "Haha, see? Coulda fooled me! Okay, but seriously, I'ma be right back, okay? Keep the door open for me."

He nearly smacks into the doorframe when he turns around, and he would have continued swaggering over to his apartment had he not heard a gruff voice behind him. "Anna," the voice says, "it's alright. Let him in."

Dean perks up, swinging in a one-eighty. There's Cas, looking adorably wrapped up in a navy blue dressing gown, patterned in silver polka dots. On his feet, meanwhile, are a set of slippers in the shape of black sheep, their eyes bulging and off centre.

"Dude, where'd you get those?" He points at his feet. He's been doing a lot of pointing this evening, he muses, so he drops his arm. "I want twenty of 'em."

"They were a gift," Cas says, chewing his lip, biting back amusement. "Dean, why don't you come inside? Aren't you cold?"

Dean considers this, staring at the ceiling. It's peppered with mold and cobwebs and other unsightly things. Cas is prettier to look at, so he stares at him again. "Eh," Dean shrugs. "There's a whole lotta alcohol in me right now. I'm actually overheating a bit. Can I take my shirt off?" he asks, already pulling at the hem.

"Dean, leave it on," Cas says sternly. With a pout, Dean obeys. "Come on. Inside."

"Am I intruding?" Dean asks worriedly.

"I was just on my way out," Anna says, turning to Cas. "Will you be alright, Castiel?" She eyes Dean pointedly. Dean offers them both a winning grin.

"I'll be fine," Cas huffs. "It's late. You should head home, Anna."

With a nod, Anna disappears into the apartment. At Cas's insistence, Dean follows her, preening when he feels Cas's hand rest on his lower back, steering him towards the couch.

Anna scoops up her handbag and jacket. Once Dean's figured out a relatively sensible sitting position, she rounds on him. " _Behave_ ," she tells him.

"I always do!" Dean protests. Anna is downright _rude_ , apparently. He turns his nose up at her. She sighs in exasperation.

On her way out, Anna wraps Cas up in a tight hug. Man, Dean could really go for a hug right now. He curls his arms around his stomach, gazing glumly at his bare feet.

"Thank you," he hears Cas murmur. For what, exactly, Dean's unsure. His stomach twists, bile rising in his throat. There's a glass of water on the table, so he takes a big gulp.

Next second, Cas has seemingly materialised in front of him, staring down. His arms are folded over his chest, an eyebrow raised. "Still drinking too much?"

"It makes me feel good," Dean giggles, taking another swig of water. Cas slips the glass out of his fingers and goes to the kitchen, filling it up again. "And I don't feel so good these days. Why'dja shut me out, Cas? You're my pal." When Cas hands him the water, he looks at him with wide eyes. "We're pals, right?"

"Yes, we're pals," Cas agrees, taking the glass back once Dean's had another mouthful. He sets the glass down and then sits on the floor in front of him.

Dean re-adjusts himself so his feet are square with his knees. He pats his lap, beaming. "Hey, don't sit there. That looks uncomfy. Sit on my lap."

"I'm alright, Dean."

"Quit lyin', dude. Floors are _so_ uncomfy! Sit here." He slaps his lap harder. "Please?"

"No, Dean," Cas sighs. "Please behave."

Dean slumps back into the couch, pouting again. "M'sorry."

Cas leans forward, squeezing Dean's knee. Warmth travels all the way up from that point into Dean's chest, his heart fluttering.

"How do you feel?"

"V'ry drunk. Happy, I think," Dean says, frowning. "Or...numb? Numb, maybe. I dunno. I'm dizzy."

"Drink more water."

"Okay," Dean nods, reaching for the glass, then pauses.

Blinking slowly, Dean assesses the room. The apartment had been pristine not a week ago, everything neatly put away, surfaces reflective and dust free. Now, though? The boxes of t-shirts have been torn open, clothes strewn across the arms of the couch and all over the floor. There are dirty dishes on the coffee table and large bags of rubbish resting near the front door, waiting to be taken down. Everywhere Dean looks there's mess and clutter, like the apartment has gone and imploded on itself.

Dean turns to Cas, suddenly unsettled. He gestures around them with a sweep of his arm. "What happened here? Your apartment is..." He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to think of the right word. "It's fuckin' _trashed_."

Cas smiles, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Yes, it is."

"What happened?"

" _I_ happened," Cas says, shrugging. "You do the same thing, do you not? When you're upset?"

Dean wrinkles his nose, thoughtful. "Nah, I'm just flat-out disgusting. My apartment's always dirty. Yours smells like roses and shit." He blinks at Cas. "Smells like you, actually. You smell, like, _edible_ , did you know that?"

"No, but thank you," Cas says, flushing handsomely. "Back to the point, though ― my apartment's a mess because, well...when I get upset, I get restless. I throw things and ignore my chores and generally allow entropy to run its course." He shrugs again. "You do the same."

"Maybe." Dean squints.

Cas squints in return. "Yes, Dean, you do the same."

"Maaaaaybe."

Laughter bubbles up in Cas's throat, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Alright," he says simply.

Dean slumps down into the couch, slipping so far that the back cushion is only supporting his head, his neck bent at a ninety degree angle. "I'll help you clean it," Dean says, waving a hand about. "Least I can do."

"It's alright, Dean. You don't have to do that."

"Cas, you helped me once, remember? 'Cause Marv's a dick." Dean nods decisively, his eyelids slipping closed. "Marv's a fuckin' asshole. Yep. M'gonna help. 'Cause Marv's a dick."

"Don't fall asleep," Cas says, voice soft like a lullaby. "We need to talk."

Dean jerks upright, arranging himself until he's sitting properly again. "Yep, gotta talk. Hell yeah." He shakes himself, claps his hands together. "Okay. Let's talk."

"Are you sober enough?" Cas says, raising an eyebrow.

Dean consults the spinning room, the glass of water that has somehow divided into three new ones. "Yep. I'm good to go."

"Dean―"

"Caaaaaas, come on, man." Dean vibrates impatiently, tapping his feet. "I miss ya like crazy. Tell me what's going on. Your brain's like a rubix cube or sumthin'. I was never good at rubix cubes."

After a moment of deliberation, Cas re-positions himself on his knees, crawling forward until he's sitting right in front of him. He props his back against Dean's shins, planting his butt on top of his feet. Dean wiggles his toes experimentally. Cas clears his throat, so Dean hurriedly stops, reprimanded.

"I'm going to face away from you while we have this conversation," Cas clarifies.

"Aw, okay," Dean grumbles, already missing those bright blue eyes.

Cas takes a deep breath. "I overreacted, I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry. I stand by what I said the other night, though ― it was a mistake for me to kiss you." Dean whines, and Cas reaches behind him to pat the side of his cheek. Dean angles towards his hand, desperate for touch. "It was a mistake for us to be together in that way. I want to be friends, nothing more. I cannot give you what you need. It'll only cause problems long-term."

"Dude, like...you think too much," Dean says, sighing into Cas's palm. "Can't we just try it? Come on, like. I'm too freakin' depressed to even have a sex drive these days."

Fingers trail from Dean's cheek to his shirt, squeezing tightly. "Do you have depression, Dean?"

Dean groans, rubbing at his face. It's growing itchier and itchier. It must be Cupcake's fur. "Not the point, jeez. I mean...I'm not diagnosed, obviously. Like I'd ever see a shrink," he snorts. "I'm not _that_ responsible. Um..." He forgets what he was going to say, his head beating like a drum. He hunches over and buries his face in Cas's neck, exhaling softly against warm, prickly skin. "You smell so good, Cas."

"Thank you." Gently, he laces his fingers through Dean's hair, rubbing soothing circles into his scalp.

At some point, Dean must drift off, lulled by Cas's expert fingers. There's a strange feeling enveloping them both, somewhere between content and sad, safe and uncertain. Cas leans back into Dean, their faces pressed side by side. Half-asleep and slightly delirious, Dean thinks he can feel Cas nosing at his hair, breathing in his shampoo.

Eventually Dean blinks awake, Cas's shirt sticking to his stubble. He groans into consciousness, his neck stiff and aching. Cas, who had closed his eyes too, turns to look at him.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I should keep drinkin'," Dean jokes. Cas huffs, lightly smacking his knee. Dean musters up a smile. "I should go to bed."

"Do you need help getting home?"

"I can manage five steps," Dean chuckles, dragging himself to a standing position. Cas fusses over him regardless, guiding him to the front door with careful hands.

With the door open, chilly air sweeps into the apartment, causing Dean's eyes to water. There must be a window open somewhere in the building. It's springtime, but winter hasn't quite moved on just yet.

He glances back at Cas, who's hovering next to him with a deep furrow on his brow. Dean manages another smile, sticking out his hand.

"Friends?"

Cas's lips quirk. "Friends," he agrees, taking his hand firmly. They shake once, then Cas reels him in, wrapping his solid arms around him. Dean sags into the embrace, tucking Cas's head beneath his chin.

When they part, Dean excuses himself, swaying with every step. He can feel Cas's eyes on him until he finally reaches his apartment, pulling the door shut behind him.

\---

Next morning, Dean steps out onto the landing, his mouth still tasting like ass. He's dehydrated and woozy, and he's in desperate need of a greasy breakfast.

He's distracted from his mission, however, when he spots Cas's front door wide open. From afar, he can see piles of rubbish bags and all manner of junk piled up on the couch while Cas sweeps through with a whirling, shrieking vacuum cleaner. There's a brightly coloured bandana on his head, keeping his bangs out of his eyes. He's concentrating hard, tongue peeking out between his teeth.

The apartment is being completely revamped. From what he can see, the coffee table's been relocated, the TV's in a new spot, and the couch is turned towards the back of the apartment rather than the front. Cas has one of those ridiculous cleaning trolleys parked near the kitchen bench, making him the epitome of a domesticated house husband.

Dean's chest aches dully. Last night's conversation floats to his consciousness. He chews his lip, his feet suddenly stuck to the floor.

When Cas notices him gawking, he raises a hand, his smile friendly but strained. Dean waves in return, wondering just _why_ does it have to be this way? They dig each other. Why can't Dean leap over all of the crap blocking up the doorway and sweep Cas off his feet? That would be _so_ romantic. Dean's good at romance, although he rarely gets a shot at it. He probably doesn't have the muscle right now to pick up a guy who's practically the same size as him, but he would _try_ , damn it. Cas would be totally flattered.

Cupcake, ever watchful, is lurking next to the front door. She peers out at him, but her eyes aren't suspicious this time, just staring at him. It's like she's silently communicating with him, saying, _What are you doing?_ She blinks lazily. _"Just friends" is a stupid ass idea._

Dean agrees with her. _"_ Thanks, fatcat," Dean says. Cas can't hear him over the vacuum, but Cupcake meows.

All of his motivation to get breakfast deflates in him like a sad, popped balloon. Scuffing his shoes, he marches back into his apartment, closing the door with a loud click. He's pretty sure there's an apple hiding in his crisper. Or maybe it's a deformed pear.

He doesn't make it to the kitchen. He heads straight for the couch, curling up with his back towards the front door, his nose buried in a cushion that smells like dust and B.O.


	6. Chapter 6

Sunlight creeping in through the window informs Dean that he has, in fact, been up all night. Sleep has been a luxury recently, his brain completely incapable of shutting off. Dean's been relying on alcohol to send him off for far too long, and since he's attempting to cut back, he catches some shut-eye in only one or two hour intervals.

It's as if his mind has become a big angry storm cloud, pulsating and rumbling around his skull, generating headaches and feelings that Dean can only describe as _icky_. His body feels weird, too: his skin is irritated, his eyes sting, and his hands are stiff and constantly dropping things. Ellen's actually been worried about him, so she forced him to take sick leave.

_"You need to rest up, kiddo. Come back in two weeks, y'hear?_ " she'd said. That was five days ago; Dean feels no better for it. In fact, even though retail work is utterly repulsive, the distraction from his thoughts had been welcome.

With the sun rising, that marks thirty-six hours since he's last slept. Last night, had he gone to bed at his usual time, he would have only had three beers, which is a pretty decent record for him. Instead, he'd tossed and turned for a couple of hours, then fetched another beer, hoping for a nightcap. Four beers later, he's still staring up at peeling paint, wondering why the hell everything has to be so damn _difficult_.

His phone's propped up on his knee, the battery close to dead. Safari is open and displaying a page entitled "The Ace-Spectrum". He'd been skimming through sexuality forums throughout the night, his feverish mind convinced that it was a good idea. He's been learning about all sorts of identities, from asexual to pansexual to demisexual. Dean's convinced himself that it's just a curiosity thing, and not because of a sad little crush he hasn't quite given up on yet. Nobody but him has to know what he's been up to. Cas _certainly_ doesn't need to know.

Around 8 o'clock, his continued sleeping attempts only broken up when he's bored enough to check social media, he hears a knock on the door. It's probably Cas, although maybe it's Marv. He's not sure if he paid his rent last week. His bank account's been abysmally low recently, so he assumed that he had, although it's more likely because he's a fucking child who can't get his life together.

He pulls himself up, nursing his head. Once on his feet, he has to lean against the wall for a minute to ground himself. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he thought.

Dean opens the door and it's Cas, of course. He's standing there in a light sweater and jeans, looking clean-shaven and smart.

Immediately, Cas's eyes turn wide and sad. "Oh, Dean."

"I look that good, huh?" Dean snorts, rubbing a palm over his face. His nose is blocked up now, something that developed overnight. Maybe he really is coming down with something. At least then he'll have an actual reason to stay in bed all day.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Cas asks, head tilted in concern. Dean shakes his head, and Cas reaches forward to grip his shoulder, to ground him. Dean leans away from the touch, shaking his head some more. Cas drops his hand, and after a beat, clears his throat. "Can I get you anything? Food, coffee? I was going to ask if you wanted to come get breakfast, but..."

Dean shrugs, leaning back against the doorframe. His stomach's hollow, a consequence of not eating for sixteen hours, but he doesn't really feel like food. The act of chewing just seems too hard at the moment. "Banana smoothie would be good," Dean muses, staring at the adjacent wall. "They make good banana smoothies."

"Yes, they do." Cas reaches out again, and this time Dean lets him touch, brush his fingers down Dean's bare arm. "You feel cold, Dean. Why don't you get something warm on and we'll go?"

"Sure thing, mom," Dean grumbles but obeys nonetheless, finding a mostly clean hoodie lying across the back of a chair. He leaves on his sweatpants, not bothering with jeans.

Dean allows Cas to lead, following him a few paces behind. Down the stairs, turn left, cross the street, walk to the end of the block. There are people out and about and cars horning each other, but Dean's well and truly in Zombie Mode, the sounds blending together into a dull, irritating hum.

Next thing he knows he's sitting at a booth, Cas opposite and ordering coffee for the both of them. Sighing, Dean leans forward and rests his head in his arms, closing his eyes. He doesn't complain when Cas clicks his tongue and starts rubbing Dean's head with soothing fingertips. He melts against his temporary pillow, only jerking upright when the waitress returns with their drinks.

"You need to sleep, Dean," Cas says, cupping his palms against the hot mug. "You should go home and sleep after this. Do you have work today?"

"Nup, no work. Probably gonna be fired at this rate but whatever." He shrugs flippantly, taking a gulp of coffee and burning his tongue. "Ouch, fuck."

"Careful."

"Oh, don't go all motherhen on me," Dean snaps, sitting back in his seat. At the hurt expression on Cas's face, he immediately regrets it. "Sorry, Cas. You didn't deserve that."

"You're tired," Cas says kindly, and _Christ_ , Dean does not deserve Cas ― his friendship, his patience, any of it. The waitress is approaching their table again, so Cas asks him, "Do you want to order that smoothie?"

"Yeah," Dean says, suddenly craving sustenance. His stomach's in sharp, painful knots, but it's hard to know if it's hunger or a symptom of this cold, flu-thing. A smoothie should be alright, he figures, so he gives the waitress his order. Cas orders a bacon and egg wrap with extra pickles.

Once she leaves, the air between them is tense, although maybe that's just on Dean's side. He and Cas have been friends for months but Dean's not sure how to do this anymore. After having him in his arms, tasting him, touching him (he was evaluating his goddamn _sexuality_ because of him, warming up to the idea that _maybe_ he's into the occasional dude) he just can't go back to this. He'd rather have Cas as a friend than nothing at all, but this just _hurts_ , and believe it or not, Dean is _sick_ of hurting.

After Dean sighs for the fiftieth time, Cas looks up, concerned. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"'Bout what?" Dean says, just to be difficult.

"About what's bothering you," Cas replies, interlocking his fingers together, resting his hands on the table. "You can talk to me, Dean."

"Nah," Dean mumbles into his hand, staring down at the plastic tabletop. "It's nothing."

"Dean, it's not _nothing_. We're friends. Friends talk to one another."

"I don't _do_ talking, Cas. I'm a freakin' basketcase. I'll just keep compressing my stupid, sensitive feelings until they go away and never come back."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Does for me."

"Dean―" Cas cuts himself off, interrupted by the reappearance of the waitress. She plants the banana smoothie in front of Dean and leaves quickly, having caught on to their discussion. Cas is trying to be subtle about it, but Dean can't be bothered to whisper, so half the diner can probably hear them. "Dean, I'm worried."

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

"Dean, please just―"

"Cas," Dean interjects, losing his patience. He takes a calming breath, refusing to snap at Cas again, even though his brain is pounding against his skull. "I appreciate the concern, I do. But, I just..." He crosses his arms tightly across his chest, withdrawing. "I just, I deal with my shit...alone. And I'm bad at coping, I know that, but, I mean," he shrugs helplessly, "I don't know how else to cope, so this is it. Maybe one day I'll figure out how to sleep again, and maybe one day I'll stop sabotaging myself and screwing myself over at every opportunity, but, well. Things are shit now, but it'll be fine. I'll be fine."

"Dean..." Cas leans forward, palms turned up to the ceiling, an invitation. Dean hunches in on himself, fighting the urge to reach out.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean tells him, trying to sound genuine, like there's an ounce of truth to what he's saying. "Stop worrying. I'll be fine. I always am."

Something like despair and doubt are at war on Cas's face, his eyes impossibly sad. Dean stares him down, offering a small smile. Eventually, Cas nods and looks away, his shoulders sagging.

At that moment, Cas's food arrives, the scent of greasy bacon wafting between them.

"Eat up," Dean says, eyebrows raised. With a sigh, Cas acquiesces, and Dean takes the opportunity to shove a straw in his mouth and slurp up his smoothie, content to avoid talking for the rest of breakfast.

\---

The following evening finds Dean halfway to Abercrombie's, hands shoved in his pockets to combat the evening chill. As he's rounding the corner, the pub appears on the horizon like a beacon. However, he finds himself coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone grunts as they go around him, but Dean pays them no mind.

Lightbulbs flicker on the Abercrombie's sign, creating that old, slightly rundown aesthetic that Dean absolutely loves. There's alcohol on ice and obnoxious laughter and attractive people everywhere, boys and girls alike, but _damn it,_ what if Charlie or Benny are there? What if they find him sitting at the bar, drinking alone, same old same old? What would they think of him?

" _He never changes_ ," they'd mutter to each other. _"He's an irresponsible drunk. He's not worth it."_

It's been, what, a couple of weeks since he swore to himself that he'd cut back? How is getting trashed at the pub going to do him any favours? Sam and Jess are arriving in four days and his apartment is still a catastrophe, completely unfit for anyone but Dean to stay in. It seems like a pretty foolish idea to drink away his problems when he could, you know, _fix them._

Well, it'll probably fill the yawning ache in his chest that refuses to go away, but the moment he's sober he'll just go back to feeling like shit; go back to thinking he's the worst person on the planet because nobody wants to hang out with a drunk who can't keep his life together.

Dean huffs in frustration, lashing out at a rock on the sidewalk and stubbing his toe for his trouble. He hobbles his way home, angry and feeling as if he's being torn in two: wanting desperately to drink until he's numb, but also wanting to stop disappointing everyone around him, including himself.

By the time he reaches the third landing he's exhausted, the weight of a tonne of bricks on his shoulders. He pays no mind to Cas's front door and heads straight for his own, slipping inside quietly.

The compulsion to drink is soul-consuming; it's all he can think about. There's two six-packs of beer in the fridge, half a litre of bourbon in the cupboard, and a mostly empty bottle of tequila underneath his bed. Part of him wants to pour it all down the drain, but he can't bring himself to do it. _You can't waste it_ , his brain keeps telling him.

_Jurassic Park_ 's on TV and he tries to watch it, he really does. He tries to take his mind off his parched throat and the weight beneath his ribcage. His hands are trembling so he sits on them, ignores the tremors, makes an effort to calm himself and enjoy the movie. After a good twenty minutes, however, he gives up and goes to bed, figures he might feel better in the morning.

He rolls from side to side, changes from pajamas to underwear and then to nothing at all, hoping the soft sheets against bare skin will soothe him to sleep. He tries to masturbate but it's half-hearted at best, and when he finally manages to get off he just feels disappointed.

_Nothing feels good anymore_ , he muses bitterly.

He gets up again, mops himself up and then decides to have another shower, run the water so hot that he can barely see through the steam. He steps out once the water's gone cold, then dries off, brushes his teeth (first time in three days, hooray!) and climbs back into bed in a clean pair of underwear.

After another hour of tossing and turning he finally drifts off at midnight, only to be woken up at three o'clock due to a strange scratching sound. Dean blinks, willing his eyes to adjust, and spies the shadow of a cat coming in through the window. Cupcake is watching him, her fur backlit by the crescent moon.

Baffled, Dean gets to his feet and pops open the window. "How'd you get here?" he mutters with a frown. She hops inside, landing gracefully on the carpet. She wastes no time in leaping up onto his bed, curiously prodding at the mattress with her paws.

"Reow?"

Dean groans, rubbing his eyes. They're beginning to itch already. "Fatcat, get outta here," he mutters, attempting to shoo her while maintaining six feet of distance. Instead, she curls up on the bed, purring like a motor. There's a one-sided standoff for a couple of minutes before Dean surrenders, slumping down beside her.

He sniffles and rubs aggressively at his face. He still feels like crap, he hasn't had a decent sleep in days. Dean's had insomnia once before and it _sucks_ , it makes you want to tear out your eyeballs. It messes with your brain, makes you see shit that's not there, kicks rational thought out the window. He's been mood swinging all over the place like a hormonal teenager. It's getting harder and harder to look after himself, too. Not that he was doing a stellar job of that when he was sleeping ten hours a day, but still, he could at the very least go to the grocery store. He's had to order in most nights or skip meals entirely.

Unless he pulls himself together in the next day or so, Sam's gonna see him as the failure he really is. Ellen will someday wake up and see it as well, and then he'll be on his ass without a job for the second time in twelve months. If he hasn't got a job he can't afford his apartment, he isn't lucky enough to have rich parents to fall back on (Or living parents at all, for that matter), and he has a sneaking suspicion that Sam won't be too keen on housing him until he gets his life together, what with Jess and all. Benny and Andrea don't have the room for him. Charlie might, but he can't ask his friends to take care of him like that. He doesn't deserve that kindness.

The longer he sits here feeling sorry for himself, the more his chest begins to constrict, his throat refusing to pass air into his lungs. He knows it's the beginnings of a panic attack, something that's been happening to him more and more recently. Breathing through it doesn't seem to work as well as it used to and it _certainly_ won't work now, what with Cupcake's fur fluttering in the air.

His eyes are swelling up, starting to water. When the first tear comes down his face, Cupcake blinks up at him, her eyes strangely sad. Damn it, she's Cas's cat and she's just like him with his stupid, sympathetic eyes.

A sob catches itself in Dean's throat and it _hurts._ "For fuck's sake, why does everything _hurt?_ " he asks no one in particular, hunching over and planting his face in his hands. He scrubs the tears in frustration. Cupcake places one of her chubby paws on his knee, nuzzles at the side of his face. "Go away, you hayfever with legs," he growls, nudging her with his elbow. She meows and comes close again, nuzzling her way into his lap.

Dean straightens, angling his face away from her. She tucks herself against his stomach and purrs happily, eyes falling shut. Dean exhales, his breath uneven, and carefully places a hand in her orange fur. He rubs along her neck and ears, scratching intermittently. She seems quite content to be cuddled, and honestly, despite his increasing need to sneeze, Dean appreciates her reassuring weight.

He has no idea how much time passes, but eventually the tightness in his chest fades away. The tears, however, don't stop for a long while afterwards. Dean blames it on his allergies.


	7. Chapter 7

Enthusiastic knocking signals his brother’s arrival. He quickly assesses his apartment one last time and checks himself out, too. His eyes are tired but he's freshly shaven and wearing clean clothes. The only thing missing is a big smile, which he corrects before finally answering the door.

"Sammy!"

"Dean!" Sam grins. He drops his bags to the floor and envelops him in a hug. It always amazes him how tall Sam actually is, the way his arms can wrap all the way around him. "Hey, sorry we're late."

"You're not late," Dean scoffs, peering curiously at the pretty blonde woman standing behind them. "You said you'd be here by four and it's four-oh-three. _Relax_. Now, are you gonna introduce me or what?"

Apologetically, Sam disentangles himself and draws up next to Jess, draping an arm across her shoulders. "Yeah, right, okay. So, Dean, this is Jess. Jess, meet my brother, Dean."

Dean sticks out a hand. "Pleasure."

She laughs, smacking away his hand and stepping up to kiss him on the cheek. "It's great to finally meet you. And you know," she smirks, raising a brow. "Sam didn't tell me you were quite this handsome."

"Oh, there's a reason for that," Dean smiles teasingly at Sam. "Sam knows who lucked out when it comes to the Winchester gene pool. He had to keep it a secret or he'd never get a girl."

Sam gives them both a flat look. "It's been five seconds and you're already teaming up on me."

Jess turns to smile sheepishly. "Sorry."

Chuckling, Dean invites them inside, leading them to the couch, which has been unfolded into a bed. He went out and got brand new sheets from Walmart, managing to get five hundred thread count for a pretty decent price. "Now, it's not particularly glamorous, but it sure as hell is cheaper than a hotel."

"Dean, don't worry about it. The place looks great!" Sam says, beaming.

His apartment _does_ look great. The kitchen is spotless, the floors are free of crumbs, and for the first time in his adult life, Dean actually _dusted_. Achieving this kind of cleanliness was only possible thanks to an unhealthy dose of caffeine and about four hours of sleep. His home smells like a field of roses right now. Sam better damn appreciate it.

"Oh, before I forget. Birthday tomorrow," Dean says, pointing at Sam. "I’m totally down for the celebratin’. Only trouble is, I’ve got work. I figure we could do something tonight, maybe? Anybody up for Chinese?"

A peculiar expression descends upon Sam's face. "Uh, we're going to Benny's, aren't we?"

Dean frowns. "Uh, no?"

"It was definitely tonight," Jess pipes up, checking her phone. "I wrote it down. Benny and Andrea invited us all."

"Are you sure?" Dean says. "Actually, I don't think I've checked my phone in a while..." And by a while, he means two days. He heard the text alerts going off, but he couldn't quite find the motivation to check who was messaging him.

Sam shakes his head, huffing. "Well, it sounded pretty fun. Charlie was the one who told me about it. I think Benny's hiring out a jukebox or something. Oh, but he said there'll be no alcohol."

Dean's stomach drops. "No alcohol?"

"Yeah, apparently Benny's been having a tough time recently. Been going to AA meetings, the whole ordeal," Sam says, completely oblivious to the expression on Dean's face.

"When my dad was in recovery, he couldn't be around alcohol _at all_ ," Jess says knowingly. "The whole family gave up drinking for a couple of years. Show support, you know?"

“It’ll still be fun though!” Sam says with a bright smile. “Although, I’m keeping you away from that karaoke machine. Nobody needs to hear your _docile tones_.”

"Yeah," Dean laughs shakily, his knees suddenly weak.

He's known Benny a long damn time. He's _certain_ Benny has no addiction to alcohol. The guy has maybe two drinks whenever they go out; he's so responsible it's kind of ridiculous. Which means, unless he's mistaken, that Benny's lying to cover up for _Dean ―_ they're banning alcohol at Sam's party because of _him_ , but Benny's taking the fall for it.

Shame weighs heavily on him, enough to force him onto the couch, knees finally buckling. Sam and Jess are talking amongst themselves, however, paying Dean no mind. Dean tries to keep calm, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, focuses on breathing. Self-loathing is bubbling up in his mind, pushing itself to the front, telling him over and over again that he's a burden, an embarrassment. He managed to pull himself together in time for Sam and Jess, but all it took was one simple conversation for him to begin yet another meltdown.

God, he's pathetic.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asks, interrupting his angry musings. "Where are your towels?"

"Cupboard," Dean says, jerking a thumb behind him. "Someone need a shower?"

Jess raises a hand. "Me. I've been in a car for close to fifteen hours."

Dean smirks. "And you've been stuck in the car with sasquatch, too. Let me guess: you regret stopping for Mexican, right?"

"Dean!" Sam protests.

Over his shoulder, Jess mouths, " _Oh my god, yes!"_ She giggles when Sam catches her in the act.

"Traitor!" he exclaims, hand over his heart. Dean observes all of this with a grin, relieved when the tightness in his chest starts to lessen.

Once Dean's fetched them both towels, the three of them dawdle by the linen cupboard, caught up in chit-chat. They discuss college, work, how Sam and Jess met at some Halloween party a few years back. Dean's careful to keep the topic of conversation on them, which is fairly easy to do. Jess almost instantly gets Dean’s stamp of approval: she's beautiful, she's funny, she's easy to talk to. She's a good match for Sam, that's for sure. He's grateful that she's around to take care of his little brother.

Later, while Jess is showering and getting ready for the party, Dean and Sam are on the couch, watching cartoons. Neither of them are really paying attention, though. Sam's practically vibrating out of his seat, his legs twitching with nerves.

"Dude, what's up?" Dean finally asks. "Quit fidgeting."

"Sorry," Sam sighs, running a hand through his long hair. "So, what do you think of Jess?"

"She's great, Sammy," Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder. "I always had a good feeling about her. I can tell you're pretty crazy about her."

A shaky laugh escapes Sam's lips. "Good. That's―that's good. I'm glad you feel that way, 'cause otherwise this would have been really awkward." He reaches into his jacket, plucking a small box from one of the pockets.

"Is that...?" Dean stares at the box, wide-eyed.

"Yeah," Sam says, opening it carefully. Inside is a ring, of course, the band sparkling gold, a modest-sized diamond embedded at the top. "I'm gonna ask her."

"For real?" Dean turns to Sam, his mouth hanging open. "Dude, holy shit."

"I know."

"Holy _shit!_ "

"You're not allowed to freak out more than me!" Sam says, closing the box again and tucking it away. "I'm sweating through three layers here. If you're not calm, how the hell am I supposed to be?"

"You cannot expect me to be calm right now!" Dean exclaims, pulling Sam in for an aggressive hug. "But she'll totally say yes."

"I hope so," Sam mumbles into Dean's shoulder.

"Nope, we're gonna be positive here," Dean says, pulling back and keeping Sam at arm's length. They stare fiercely into each other's eyes. "She'll say yes."

"I hope so."

"No," Dean says, articulating slowly. "She'll say _yes_."

"Okay, she'll say _yes_. She's definitely gonna say yes."

"Yes!" Dean fist pumps. “Say it with me!”

"Yes!" Sam mimics him with a laugh.

"You guys are doing a lot of yelling!" Jess calls from the bathroom. Both Winchesters snap up straight, facing the TV again like nothing happened. Christ, he hopes she didn’t hear them."Sam, can you help me with my dress? The stupid zipper is stuck."

"Yep, sure!" Sam says, his voice painfully high-pitched. Before he leaves, he turns to Dean with a finger pressed to his lips. "Don't let on," he whispers.

"As if I would!" Dean whispers back indignantly. He shoos him away and Sam scrambles over the couch to assist his soon-to-be-fiancee.

From the living room, he can only hear vague mumblings coming from the bathroom. The voices are soft, warm, affectionate. Without Sam or Jess' company to distract, Dean starts to feel glum. He sags deeper into the couch, his spine bent awkwardly.

His younger brother is getting married before him. Dean got a whole four years head start on life, yet Sam's beating him at every opportunity. Dean goes to community college, Sam goes to Harvard; Dean's working in retail, Sam's about to become a lawyer; Dean's had several failed relationships, Sam's found a potential _wife_.

 _Cas would make a good spouse,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully. Dean only just manages to resist punching himself in the face.

When Sam and Jess finally emerge, he can't quite reign in his feelings of inadequacy. What a couple they make: Jess is breath-taking, her hair hanging in loose curls down her back, her dress slimming and elegant. Beside her, Dean will always think his brother looks similar to a baboon, but they _do_ look good together, and Dean stares at the pair of them with envy.

Which, of course, makes him feel sick with guilt. He is absolutely, one hundred percent _ecstatic_ for his brother, for that potential new life that's hiding in his pocket. Regardless of the hiccups during their upbringing, Sam is rocketing forward, completely bowling over any obstacles that get in his way. He's aiming for the top; he wants that apple pie life, the white picket fence, the two and a half kids.

Meanwhile, Dean's barely managing to afford rent, let alone get out of bed. Hell, his friends have to lie in order to cover up his drinking problem because Dean's too chicken shit to admit he has a problem in the first place.

"Ready to go?" Sam asks, standing by the front door.

With a groan, Dean leans forward, rubbing his eyes. That _do-not-want_ feeling is smothering him, making him want to hide."Uh, why don't you two go ahead?"

"Why?" Sam's frowning at him. Dean tries not to fidget. _Come on_ , think of an excuse, Winchester.

"I just remembered I need to stop by work," Dean says, clapping his hands together. "I took the work keys home. Ellen'll be pissed."

"Okay," Sam says slowly. Jess' eyes swivel between the two of them, her brow pinched, lips pursed. Sam deliberates uncertainly. "Uh, we were gonna drive, so. Do you want us to take you there?"

"Nah, I'll be a while," Dean says, averting their eyes. "And to be honest, I'm not feeling so great. I ate a funky taco for lunch." He rubs his belly, faking a wince. "Might lie down for a bit, y'know?"

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asks, stepping forward. "Did you not wanna go, or―?"

"No, no, it's cool," Dean hurriedly reassures them. He gets to his feet, hunching over and nursing his perfectly well stomach. "You guys go ahead. I'll be along later. Once my stomach's cleared up and I return Ellen's keys." He offers them a thumbs up. "I'm all good."

"Well, if you're sure..." Sam is squinting suspiciously, but he's visibly backing off now. "I'll let Benny and Charlie know you'll be late."

"Drink some water," Jess says, her sweet face marred with concern. Dean tries not to feel too bad. "Lie down for a bit. Do you want us to get you something for your stomach? There's a pharmacy just downstairs."

"I've got something, don't worry," Dean lies easily. He starts ushering them out before they get the chance to argue. "I'll see you guys later. Try not to have too much fun without me, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," they both say, obviously perplexed. Dean shuts the door after them, the lock audibly clicking into place. With a sigh, Dean slumps against the front door, eyes slipping closed. Eventually he hears two pairs of retreating footsteps.

The apartment is silent and his clothes feel suddenly claustrophobic. A shower might help, although help with _what_ exactly is hard to pinpoint. There's something deeply unsettling churning inside him, making him want crawl out of his skin. All he knows is there's a cocktail of unpleasantness lingering about him; a mix of frustration and fear that he can't yet shake.

In the bathroom, he strips down slowly, goosebumps rising across his skin. It's not particularly cold out but he feels the chill keenly, and a sigh bursts from his lips the moment he steps into the shower. Watching the water circle the drain renders his mind strangely blank.

It feels like whatever's wrong with him ― this sickness, this fatigue, this... _depression_ , whatever it is ― is taking hold of his entire life. His brother came all the way down to visit him, and Dean's in here, avoiding him because of a sudden surge of envy. His friends are having a party, are staying sober as a way of quietly showing their support, and he's avoiding them, too, because of this everlasting shame that won't leave him be. His work life's been affected, his social life, his ability to _feed_ himself...it feels like this illness is running rampant, controlling everything he does. An existential crisis is part of his everyday life, nowadays.

He shuts off the water and grabs a towel, patting himself dry. He presses the towel to his face, breathes in the microfibres. Once he has the strength, he faces himself in the mirror.

If he stares long enough, he can _see_ how sick he is. It’s actually visible: his eyes are too bright, shadows forming crescent moons into his skin; he's peaky, a little too pale; he's lost weight and muscle mass, his collarbones sticking out sharply; and when he holds out his arm, he can see tremors running all the way down to his fingertips. He clenches a fist, but he can still feel the vibrations.

Dean frowns at himself, then lets his eyes fall closed. He takes a deep breath.

A rush of frustration hits him, his fists tightening, knuckles turning pearly white.  _Fuck this._

He’s at the end of his rope here, and enough is enough. He _needs_ to take back control, to make a decision that positively affects his life for fucking _once._

A lightbulb seems to pop up above his head. Suddenly, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

His grip on the towel tightens. When he stares into the mirror, there's a sudden energy in his gaze for the first time in many weeks. He hurries out of the bathroom, searching for fresh clothes.

Once dressed and relatively put together, he takes those familiar five steps across the landing right up to Cas's door. For a moment he hesitates, knuckles frozen an inch from the wood. Swallowing nervously, he shoves aside any last self-doubt, and knocks.

When Cas greets him, he’s in that same nightgown again, with those ridiculous (and amazing) sheep slippers on his feet. There's a five o'clock shadow across his cheeks, and the bags under his eyes are heavier than usual. He seems worn out, but he manages a small smile. "Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Cas." Dean takes several deep breaths. His palms are sweating. For some reason, everything he's rehearsed in the past five minutes has completely rushed out of him. "I, uh―"

"Is everything alright?"

Dean blinks and groans, scrubbing a palm down his chin. "Just...give me a minute."

Cas frowns but obliges, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway. He watches him patiently.

"So, I've been thinking..." Dean chews his lip. "That is, I mean..." He groans again, rubbing his eyes. "This is not going well, is it?"

"What is it, Dean?" Cas asks, a sad frown on his face.

They stare at one another, the tension between them mounting. Dean's pretty sure that Cas knows why he's here, but Cas isn't willing to say anything, just in case he's wrong. The longer he looks at him, the more he thinks he can see _hope_ in Cas's eyes, and whether it’s there or not, it’s enough to get him talking.

"My life has been a freakin' mess," Dean says, folding his arms, matching Cas's defensive stance. "My mum died when I was four. House fire. It destroyed my home, and it destroyed my dad. Alcohol became my old man's best friend. That's where I learnt my stellar coping mechanisms," Dean jokes weakly. "Dad tried to do right by me and Sam, I think. Although I have my days where I do nothing but blame the son of a bitch for how things turned out.

"I started taking care of my brother pretty early on. I was pretty overprotective, but can you really blame me?" Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "As we got older and he was finishing school, he applied for Harvard. Didn't tell me or dad. He got accepted, said he was leaving. We were pretty tight-knit, you know, after everything that happened. And, well, dad didn't handle it too well. He was pissed at Sam, and he was pissed at me as well, like I had something to do with it.

"There was a massive blow out. Sam left, I hung around with dad for another year, not mentioning Sam at all or dad would start yelling. Eventually, I got sick of dad's shit and took off. Left him with a few, uh, choice words. I was pretty angry at the time. I told him that everything was his fault ― mom's death, Sam leaving, all of it. And, uh, six months later, I found out that dad was dead." Dean scratches the back of his neck, self-conscious beneath Cas's sympathetic eyes. "I hadn't spoken to him since I left. He was drink driving, collided against a tree, died on impact. I had to tell Sam over the phone. That's how we started talking again.

"So, uh, after that, I go to college, nowhere too fancy. I'd been fooling around for years and decided to get my act together. And years ago, in grade school, I had this crush on a girl named Cassie Robinson. Didn't know nothing about her except that she had curly hair and she was super pretty for an eight-year-old." Dean huffs, smiling fondly. "Turns out she was going to the same college. We got talking. It was nice. After a while, we fell into a relationship. It was good for a while.

"But things started getting tough," Dean says, brow wrinkling. Cas remains quiet, his expression carefully neutral. "We fought a lot. At first it was over small stuff, then it kinda snowballed into bigger stuff. And eventually we just...I dunno, we were over all the fighting, all the drama, so we took a break. Never got back together." Dean shrugs, glancing at the floor. He pauses, frowning at his feet. "Jeez, I'm rambling, aren't I? What was my point again?" he chuckles, his cheeks growing warm.

Cas smiles, inclining his head. "Now's the time when you tie everything expertly together and explain your point. You tell me, Dean."

"Right," Dean sighs, running a hand anxiously through his hair. "I guess what I'm saying is that...I've had a lot of missed opportunities." He starts listing on his fingers, "Wasting my time with dad and ignoring my brother for a year; dad dying before I got a chance to make amends; letting go of a good relationship because I didn't have the balls to make it work, and..." Dean makes a rolling motion with his hand. "...Maybe you can see where I'm going with this?"

Cas shrinks on himself, shoulders hunching. "I...Dean, I―"

"Hang on," Dean says, holding up a hand. "Let me just...you can tell me to shut up in a minute, okay? I'm almost done." Cas nods, so Dean continues. "And the other thing, Cas, I―I spent my whole life thinking I was only into chicks, right? But then I met you, and that label's gone right out the window." Cas looks like he's going to cut in, so Dean hurries on, "I was freaking out, like, you don't even know. I considered pulling away a bunch of times, 'cause I was scared, okay? 'Cause it was new, it was different, and I had no idea what I was doing. I was freakin’ terrified."

"This isn't..." Cas closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. "I understand that this hasn't been easy for you. Sexuality can be confusing. But Dean, I _know_ what mine is, and I _know_ I don't experience sexual attraction. But you _do,_ Dean," Cas says fiercely, standing tall and squaring his jaw. "And maybe you've convinced yourself that this might work―"

"But you don't know that it won't," Dean protests.

"But I do!" Cas says, frustrated. "How could this possibly work? I cannot give you what you need, Dean. I don't―I don't work that way." He bites his bottom lip, his eyes bright.

"Cas, there are a _lot_ of asexuals in relationships with al-lo...alto? Altosexuals?"

"Allosexuals."

"Yes, _that!_ " Dean exclaims, brushing off his mild embarrassment and pressing on. "There are _so_ many asexuals dating allosexuals. They make it work. We could, too," Dean says, his chest tightening with nerves. "Cas, all I'm asking is we give it a shot. If you want me―"

"I do," Cas says immediately, his eyes turning more and more glassy by the second. "More than anything I want you, Dean Winchester, but it just...it won't _work_. Don't you understand?"

"I understand," Dean says softly, stepping forward, reaching for him. Cas takes half a step back. "It's like I said: I’m scared, but so are you."

"I'm not scared," Cas says, his voice strained, unsteady. "Please, Dean. I care about you so much, but I've made my choice, I can't―"

Gently, Dean places his hands around Cas's elbows. His grip is loose, easy for Cas to slip out of if he so chose. He doesn't move. "You don't want to try, because you're afraid it won't work." Dean angles his head, searching for Cas's eyes, but he won't look at him. There's a single tear tracking its way down Cas's cheek, and immediately Dean recalls what Cas told him months ago ― _I never cry_. "And, y'know, I'm scared too, not gonna lie. But I wanna try so bad, Cas. You make me feel..." A lump appears in Dean's throat, smothering the end of his sentence.

Cas blinks up at him, a tear clinging to his eyelashes. Dean brushes it away, then rests his palm in the curve of Cas's neck. Slowly Cas uncrosses his arms, reaching for Dean's shirt, gripping it tightly. For a moment Cas says nothing, his lips forming a tight, trembling line.

And then he exhales, a whoosh of air that flows into Dean's chest. When Cas meets his gaze once more, there are no more tears, just a look of determination.

"I need you to understand something," Cas says, his fingers tightening in Dean's shirt. "I love you."

"I―okay," Dean says breathlessly, his heart racing.

"But that doesn't mean you and I will ever have sex."

Dean frowns. "Yeah, I know."

"I mean e _ver_ , Dean," Cas says, eyes flashing. "I've never had sex, and I've never wanted to. Don't think that someday I might change my mind, because there's a good chance I never will."

"I know that."

"While I am prepared to experiment _to a degree_ , and while I understand that in order for a relationship to work there will always be some kind of give and take, but I'm―" He swallows, his eyes glassing over again. "I'm very serious when I say that you can _not_ go into this expecting me to suddenly want sex, Dean. Please understand that."

"I get it, Cas." He rubs Cas's upper arms soothingly. "I know what I'm getting myself into, okay?"

"Are you sure?" Cas challenges.

"One hundred percent."

"I need this to be absolutely clear―" Cas cuts himself off, pauses, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there are tears lurking in the corners, but his eyes are fierce. "I am _not_ broken."

Dean squeezes his shoulders. "You're not broken."

"You cannot fix me."

"Can't fix what ain't broke, right?"

Neither of them speak, their gazes locked onto each other. Then, quietly, Cas gives him an answer: "Then I say yes."

"Yes?" Dean says, his breath catching in his throat.

"Yes," Cas nods, a smile beginning to bloom. "I want to try. With you."

There's a victorious surge in Dean's chest, surprising a laugh out of him. "With me? Wait, for real?"

Cas reaches for him, cupping Dean's face with soft, reassuring hands. "Yes, Dean. With you."

"Holy shit," Dean says, and his eyes must be as wide as dinner plates, because Cas can't stop chuckling at his expression. "Seriously? You're not joking?"

"Why would I joke about this?" Cas huffs, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs. "You're stuck with me now, I'm afraid."

"Shit. Cas, I―I need―" He flounders, his eyes roving all over Cas's face, zeroing in on his lips. "Okay, it's―it's been like a month since I kissed you, and I'm telling ya, I really, _really_ need to kiss you right now, so―"

Cas shuts him up quickly, sighing into his mouth. Dean clings desperately, his heart beating a thousand times a minute. Beneath his ribcage there is life, there is _joy_ , the kind he hasn't experienced in far too long.

The door is wide open, the light in the hall is flickering intermittently. When they finally break apart, they linger in one another's spaces. Their foreheads rest together, the tips of their noses colliding. With Dean's back against the door frame and Cas pressed along his torso, Dean is cocooned in sweet, safe warmth. Dean breathes him in, savouring the moment.

 _This_ , he thinks, _is happiness._

\---

Later, Dean texts Sam to let him know where he is, that he won’t be coming to Benny’s. Sam was preparing to charge back over to check up on him, only calming down once Dean assured him that yes, he's _with_ someone, he'll be _fine._ Bailing on the party leaves a sour taste in the back of Dean's throat, but a part of him knows he's made the right decision. Maybe he let his friends down tonight, sure, but what he needs right now is a quiet night to sort out his thoughts. There'll be plenty of opportunities to make it up to everyone. They'll understand.

He and Cas are sitting side by side on the couch, touching all the way from shoulder to knee. Cas managed to scrounge up a microwavable bag of popcorn, which is already close to empty. Dean has been happily stuffing his face for the past hour, which Cas observes with an adorably disgusted wrinkle in his nose. Cupcake, who's planted herself a few feet away, is staring at him with wide doe eyes. Dean knows she's trying to squeeze in a snuggle, but Dean's quite happy with the current state of his sinuses, _thank you_. He nudges her with his foot when she comes too close. She whines, but Dean just shakes his head at her. Cas chuckles under his breath.

With Cas curled up against him, a pet pining for his attention, and some documentary about whales playing on the TV, everything feels comfortably domestic. Dean could get used to this lifestyle very quickly. 

The two of them have a long, complicated road ahead. Not just because of the sex thing, which in actual fact is probably the last thing on Dean's mind right now. Fact is, Dean's life is in shambles, has been for a while now. And Cas, well, he's pretty well put together, but he's got his own set of issues. He’s confident that they’re better together, though. Oh yes, there'll be ups and downs, no doubt. Provided that Dean starts making an effort, he thinks they’ll be okay. If not, well, Cas sure as hell can't carry them both.   

Dean needs to fix himself. Cas can't do it for him. He needs to sort out his head, dust out old cobwebs and screw it back on straight. There's work to sort out, bills to pay, and a hollowness in his chest that'll probably be back soon enough. All he knows right now is that he _wants_ to get better; wants to be better for Cas, for himself. Determination is simmering in the back of his mind, preparing for tomorrow, his fresh start. Making decisions, initiate change. He's as terrified as he is excited.

But that's for tomorrow, he'll have plenty of time to worry then. Right now, Dean’s caught up in staring at Cas, committing his profile to memory. Maybe he could be more subtle about it, but he doesn't really want to. When Cas catches him in the act, Dean gives him a cheeky grin.

"What is it?" Cas asks, a smile tugging at his mouth.

"You dig me," Dean says teasingly, brows waggling. "Not sexually, but romantically, right?" He doesn't so much need the clarification, but he wants Cas to say it anyway. That _I love you_ has been replaying non-stop in Dean's head ever since the words left Cas's lips.

After a beat, Cas's cheeks turn rosy. He rubs the back of his neck, staring down at his knees. "Uh, yes. That would be right."

Dean's smile broadens. He loops an arm across his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He against his lips, "Then _I_ am going to romance the hell out of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst, an epilogue is coming. Should be up by the weekend if all goes to plan.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. xx

_**1 year later** _

The waiting room is a tiny little office tucked above an electronics store in a bland, unassuming building. There's a fish tank, a young receptionist with a flashy laptop, and a small stereo filling the room with mainstream music. Dean's perched on the couch, one of his legs twitching constantly. The goldfish serve as a decent distraction, but sitting around just _waiting_ always makes him jittery with nerves.

Blessedly, it's not long before Tessa emerges from her office, her sleek black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She's dressed casually, like she always does, in a pair of jeans and a feminine white top. She offers Dean a kind smile once they lock eyes.

"Hi, Dean. Come in," she says, gesturing inside. Dean gets up with a grunt, obediently slipping inside her office. Once the door closes, the music from outside is immediately cut off.

Tessa's office is small, but not in a claustrophobic kind of way. It's appropriately intimate, and once the initial anxiety fades away, he finds the room quite comforting. It's simply decorated: two comfortable armchairs, a square coffee table with a jug of water sitting on top, and a large whiteboard spans the wall to his left. Dean's never seen her write on it during their sessions, but the board is patterned with plenty of smudges.

The first minute is always a little awkward while Tessa takes a seat and opens up her notebook, rifling through to whatever they talked about last time. It always makes Dean a tad uncomfortable, the knowledge that Tessa is jotting down all of this crap that he rambles on about. Dean pours them both some water, if only so he has something to do with his hands. Tessa takes a sip gratefully.

"So," she begins, setting her water back down with a _thunk_. "It's been a month since we last spoke. How have you been? Anything new?"

Dean takes a second to compose himself, releasing a long exhale. "Good, yeah, uh...well, I started my new job, which I'm pretty sure I mentioned last time."

"Yes, that's right!" She beams. "Finally out of retail. You're working as a mechanic now, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, at that place outside of town." Turns out that Ellen's latest squeeze, Bobby Singer, was looking for a rookie to train up to work in his salvage yard. Ellen, being the absolute saint that she is, remembered Dean's obsession with cars from his younger years and gave Bobby his number. Two weeks later, Dean was clearing out his locker and replacing his old uniform with a set of overalls and a grubby t-shirt, _Singer Salvage_ printed across the breast.

"And?" Tessa presses. "How are you finding it?"

"It's..." Dean pauses, chewing his bottom lip. "You know, it's the weirdest thing. When I was working back at the store, dealing with shitty customers, being treated like crap, I used to get those..." He pats his chest, thumping it soundly. "Those anxiety attack things. I was kinda okay once I started my shift, but I used to wake up in the mornings before work and it was like I having a heart attack or something." He shakes his head, smiling mirthlessly. "I dunno, I just always felt _sick_. I hated it, but I always sorta thought it was _normal_ , you know?"

Tessa nods, urging him to continue.

"But working at the salvage yard, just dealing with cars, putting stuff together, taking it apart, it's just so..." Dean practically melts into the chair, his mind revisiting his recent shifts. "I get up to go to work and it's like I'm _excited_ ," Dean says with a chuckle. "All of that anxiety bullshit is gone. I feel kind of energised just thinking about it," Dean admits, scratching the back of his neck. There's a pleased smile stretching across his cheeks. "I never knew work could be like this."

"That is _fantastic_ ," Tessa says, her smile wide and genuine. She scribbles something down in her notebook before looking up again. "Work was a huge source of stress for you. Do you think that now that you've changed jobs, your overall anxiety has gone down?"

"Yeah, for sure," Deans answers. "I mean, not completely, because I'm still trying to get the whole drinking thing under control. That's messing me up a bit. Plus my apartment's been a catastrophe recently, but everything's kind of..." Dean plays with his sleeve, thinking. "I dunno, things are slotting into place. It's not perfect yet, probably never will be, but knowing that everything's coming together is, uh...comforting, I guess." Dean shrugs, chuckling to himself. "I'm feeling good, to be honest. Better than I have been for a long time."

"Well look at you" Tessa says, grinning. "Making progress. Bet you didn't see that coming, did you?"

Dean laughs, rubbing his neck. "No, not really. Consider me pleasantly surprised."

Tessa jots down more things in her notebook, then asks another question. "And how has your drinking been? Still sober?"

"Yeah, it's been...what, three months now?" Dean leans back in his seat, puffing out a breath of air, calculating. "Yeah, three months clean."

"Great! How do you feel?"

"Well...yeah, I'm alright. I'm pretty proud, but I mean, it's been really goddamn tough. Honestly, I still get plenty of rough days, and it makes me wanna go and drown myself at the nearest bar, but so far I haven't given in, so." Dean shrugs again. "I had those nightmares for the first couple of weeks, like the real vivid ones, woke up shouting in my sleep. Scared the hell out of Cas, I'm telling ya," Dean huffs.

"Side effects of withdrawal," Tessa nods, scribbling again. "You were having headaches and nausea as well, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, and I was a moody son of a bitch to top it all off. It was pretty intense for a while there." He'd hit some pretty low points in that first month. The only thing that could get him to go to sleep at night was some over the counter sleeping tablets, and even then, the night terrors often pulled him awake before sunrise. "I'm past the worst of it now, I think. Having less stress helps, obviously, but, uh, I dunno. It's just hard to resist when I'm having a freak out, you know? I haven't worked out how to, uh..." Dean gestures with his hands, chewing on his words. "It's like, if I'm having a panic attack, or I've had a rough day, what am I supposed to...do...?" Dean pauses, frowning at himself. "I mean, I used to drink, and now I don't really know, like..." He trails off helplessly.

"Right, so, this is when you need to start implementing healthy coping mechanisms," Tessa says matter-of-factly. "In order to truly beat the addiction, you need to be able to replace your old coping mechanism with new, positive ones. Unless there's something else you wanted to talk about today, maybe we should discuss that...?"

"Sure," Dean says amicably, and so the session proceeds.

By the end of it, once Dean's on the stairwell and heading out into fresh air, his brain feels like mush. It's a side effect of his counselling sessions, basically guaranteed at this point. It's _exhausting_ talking about himself like that, to work on picking himself apart and remaking himself into something better; more in control of his life, of his mind.

He wasn't lying to Tessa. He feels _good_ , perhaps for the first time in his adult life.

Throughout the session, his phone had buzzed twice. He's pretty sure it's Sam who's messaging him ― he and Jess are coming to visit for a few days, arriving tonight. They're one month shy of their wedding day, and based on the phone call he'd had with his brother a week ago, they're in desperate need to get away from the reception and wedding cake dramas. Jess has a massive family and trying to accommodate a hundred people on a budget has left a lingering strain in Sam's voice. Just _talking_ to the guy had made Dean sympathetically tired.

But he'd also been _incredibly_ excited ― Dean's gonna be their best man. In one month's time, he's gonna watch his brother become a married man. If he thinks about it for too long, his eyes start to get a little misty.

When Dean drags his phone out of his pocket, however, he discovers that the messages are from Cas, not Sam. Frowning, Dean notices that there's an image attached, and when he opens it, his heartbeat stutters.

It's a picture of a box. A big, non-descript cardboard box, sitting on the floor of Cas's apartment. Beneath the picture there's a message, which reads, _Guess what just arrived. ;-)_

He sent a winky face. A goddamn winky face.

See, here's the thing about his and Cas's relationship: when it comes to their sex life, it is _incredibly_ experimental. Cas has limits, which is fine, Dean doesn't mind that aspect whatsoever. What it means, however, is that in order for them _both_ to be happy, it takes a lot of trial and error. Things that get a seal of approval include, but are not limited to: when Cas is aroused, mutual masturbation is usually on the cards; when he's not aroused, Cas kisses him thoroughly while Dean jerks himself off, and maybe he'll even instruct Dean on _how_ to get himself off (which turns Dean on way more than he ever imagined); and there are blowjobs here and there, although Cas prefers to give than receive.

Dean's always had a pretty strong sex drive. Fooling around with Cas is great, but he knows that Cas can't do it all the time. Eventually, he started getting a little... _frustrated._ Dean tried to be good for a while, try not to bring up how goddamn _horny_ he was all the time, but eventually Cas took notice.

So, on Monday night, he and Cas sat down with a laptop and scrolled through a myriad of sex toy websites, picking out all manner of _outrageous things_. They split the bill, put it on one of their credit cards, and that brings them to today, and the positively _giant_ box of sex toys waiting for him at home. He can hardly even remember what they bought now. He remembers there being a dildo, a vibrator, and he's _pretty sure_ there was a fleshlight which had a kind of space age aesthetic, not like those weird plastic flesh ones.

Christ almighty. Just looking at that box makes his entire body tingle, heat creeping to the surface of his skin. He pats his cheeks, his hands feeling cold by comparison.

This is the exact reaction Cas was going for, Dean all flustered like this. He's on his way to Abercrombie right now, about to meet Sam and Jess and have some dinner with their friends, but his mind's going to keep zeroing in on that box waiting for him at home. That sneaky bastard.

Dean pockets his phone and continues on his journey, the springtime breeze assisting in cooling his core body temperature. The sun is disappearing beneath the rooftops, the sky turning purple and pink. By the time he reaches Abercrombie, the streetlights have come on, and Dean's pulling his jacket up to shield himself from the wind.

Inside Abercrombie it's warm and lively. They're a fairly large group so they're seated out in the beer garden, and once he's out there, he realises he was the last one to arrive. There's Sam, who waves excitedly the moment he spots Dean, sitting next to Jess, who looks even more gorgeous than usual. Beside her is Andrea, then Benny, and at the end of the table is Charlie, who seems to have brought two girls with her. If memory serves him correctly, they're the objects of Charlie's affections, Dorothy and Gilda. There's an empty seat beside Sam, and next to that is Cas, whose back is turned to Dean.

This is the first time he and Cas have gone out with their friends since they've been together. Sure, they've visited them at their homes for a night of movies or something super geeky (if Charlie has anything to do with it), but being in public, especially at a bar, is a first. Dean thought he'd a bit more anxious about it, but strangely, he feels calm. He left all of that nervous energy behind in therapy, so it seems.

He grabs Cas's shoulders from behind, leaning over and placing a kiss in the corner of his mouth. Under his lips, he can feel Cas smile.

"Evenin'," Dean says lowly.

"Hello, Dean," Cas replies, leaning back into his chest. His shoulders sag beneath Dean's hands, his muscles going lax.

"What, no greeting for me?" Sam snorts. Beside him, Jess is looking at Dean and Cas with stars in her eyes, like she's never seen anything more precious. "You see him everyday! You see me, like, _never_."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, did you feel left out?" Dean says, all false sympathy. With a grin, he loops an arm around his brother and reels him in, leaving a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "There you go, Sammy. Happy now?"

Sam makes a series of scandalised noises. At the end of the table, Charlie chokes on her drink. Satisfied, Dean slides into his seat.

"Did you want a drink, brother?" Benny asks, signalling a waitress. "A Coke?"

"Yep, Coke for me," Dean says. Beneath the table, Cas squeezes his hand. Their hands remain like that, knitted together in solidarity. "What about you, Cas? Lemonade?"

"Yes, a lemonade."

"Make sure you get him a straw," Dean tells the waitress, grinning. "He can't drink anything without a straw."

"I have sensitive teeth, Dean," Cas admonishes.

"I'll have a lemonade as well," Jess says, whose drink of choice is usually beer or cider. Recently, Dean has come to learn that soft drink is actually pretty damn good. People should drink it more often.

After drinks they order enough food to feed a small army. There's buffalo wings, tacos, and about six pounds of fries. Dean eats so much it's almost painful to _breathe_. Meanwhile Cas is half-asleep beside him, falling into a carb coma.

The night is pleasant, goes far smoother than Dean could have hoped for. It's always a bit iffy, hanging around with his friends when they're all getting tipsy. Having a sober buddy helps monumentally ― Cas hasn't touched alcohol since Dean gave it up. Not that Cas drank much to begin with, but the sentiment means more to Dean than he knows how to articulate.

Sam and Jess are disgustingly happy, of course. The stress of the wedding doesn't seem to be hanging over them tonight. Jess is wearing her ring, naturally, and it just looks so _right_ on her. She and Sam were meant to be, Dean thinks. Beneath the table, he massages the bare skin on Cas’s ring finger.

"Uh, we have an announcement," Sam says as the night is starting to wind down. Gilda is drunk off two glasses of wine and is using Charlie's shoulder as support, while Dorothy has drunk six beers and appears inhumanely sober. They all snap to attention when Sam speaks, however, and Dean notes the nervousness on his brother's face, the way his voice shakes. "Jess and I. We...uh, we have something important to announce."

"You mean you're getting _married?"_ Charlie gasps, clutching her chest. "I had no idea! Why didn't anyone _tell_ me?!"

"Yeah, yeah, shut up, Charlie," Sam huffs, and she quietens with a guilty squeak. "Okay, so Jess and me, we're, uh...We're getting married next month, as you all know, and well, we kind of..." Sam flounders, looking to his fiancee. She rolls her eyes, smiling.

"Not the best timing, all things considered," Jess says, sitting up straight. "But...I'm pregnant. Six weeks along."

There's a long pause, in which everyone just sits there, mouths slightly agape. Dean's brain has come to a complete standstill, short-circuiting.

"You're having a baby?" Charlie says, her voice high-pitched. "Oh my god. Oh my _god_ , Jess, Sam, you guys...!"

"Congrats, brother," Benny says, holding out a hand, which Sam shakes firmly. "Jess, you will make an amazing mother."

"Thank you," Jess says, her eyes a tad bright. Andrea wraps an arm around her, pulling her in tightly.

"Sam," Dean manages finally. "I'm gonna be an uncle."

"Yep," Sam nods, smiling.

"Me?" Dean frowns, trying to picture. "Dude, I don't think I'm ready for that kind of responsibility."

"It's not _your_ kid," Sam laughs. "You should be reassuring me!"

"I'm still trying to process this!" There's joy beginning to fill his chest, forcing its way out, his ribcage fit to burst. He suddenly can't stop smiling. In his peripheries, he can see that same joy reflected on Cas's face. "I can't even freakin'... _damn it_. I can't even explain how excited I am, man," Dean says, and then he's getting to his feet, wrapping Sam up in an enthusiastic hug. "You, a dad. Me, the cool uncle."

"I don't know about _cool_ ," Sam chuckles, returning Dean's embrace. "You'd be the weird, loser uncle that teaches my kid all the wrong things." He pauses, his hand hovering above Dean's back. "On second thought, maybe I should keep you away. Cas can be the cool uncle."

"Cas isn't cool!" Dean protests, detaching himself from Sam. "Cas is the dorky uncle. I'm the badass uncle. Right, Cas?"

Cas chuckles, the creases deepening around his eyes. "Something like that."

After a celebratory round of drinks they're all clambering out of the beer garden around nine. Charlie and her girlfriends are going to some video game club on the other side of town, while Benny and Andrea are heading home because they both have work in the morning. Out on the street corner, Dean embraces Jess, patting her soft blonde hair. When they part, he kisses her on the temple.

"I'm buying your kid a Batman onesie," he informs her. She giggles, swatting him on the shoulder. "I'm serious."

"Are you assuming I'm having a boy?" she asks, quirking a brow.

"What? No way! You think a girl can't be into Batman?" Dean says, scandalised. "I'm friends with _Charlie_. I know better than to stereotype. Trust me."

Cas, meanwhile, is returning one of Sam's hugs, who’s so much bigger than him he basically swallows him up in his coat. Sam's laughing, muttering something to Cas that neither he nor Jess can hear. The hug looks kinda awkward, mostly because Cas turns into a wooden statue whenever people touch him. Admittedly, he's gotten significantly better at hugging Dean, which is where it actually counts.

"Come here," Dean says, tugging his brother into another hug. "I'm proud of you, man. Married with kids. You beat me to it."

"Won't be long until you're in my shoes," Sam replies quietly. They part, and while Cas and Jess are preoccupied saying goodbye to each other, he makes a pointed glance in Cas's direction. "This thing with you and Cas...I don't think I've ever seen you so happy, Dean."

Dean huffs, glancing at his feet. His cheeks feel warm. "Yeah, well, neither. I _am_ happy, that's the weird thing," he chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets. "I really am, Sammy."

"I believe you," Sam says, smiling gently. Jess appears at his side, hooking an arm through his. "Well, anyway, thanks for dinner. Nice to see everyone again. Time for us to head back to our _stunning_ hotel room."

Jess groans. "Ugh. It's absolutely _awful_."

"Where are you staying?" Cas asks, frowning.

"Some three star motel, I can't remember the name. It is _so_ not three stars, seriously." Sam makes a gagging noise. "The internet has betrayed me. I never thought this day would come."

"Do you guys know anywhere else we could stay? You know, for next time," Jess says, her nose wrinkling. "I mean, I can put up with it this time, it's only another two days, but if you ever want us to come back, you're going to suss out some better hotels for us, because, _wow..."_

Dean's lips quirk up, his mind ticking over. "Well, actually, you can probably stay with us next time."

"Dude, I appreciate the offer, but I still have nightmares about that couch of yours," Sam says, shuddering. "I had a crick in my neck for two months."

"Uh, well," Dean says, scratching the back of his head. His other hand finds Cas's, suddenly nervous. "Actually, you wouldn't have to sleep on the couch. Cas and I, we're..." Dean huffs, his stomach twisting. His palms are starting to sweat, but Cas gives him a squeeze of encouragement. "We're moving out, uh, as of next week. It's a two bedroom place, but the second bedroom is a gonna be a guest room, so you'll have a proper bed this time, I swear."

"You're moving in together?" Sam asks, his eyebrows so high they're practically blending into his hairline.

"We were basically already living together," Cas answers with a shrug. "Dean's been living at my apartment for almost six months now, but it's far too small for the both of us. Plus there's my cat, and all of his stuff was just sitting in his own apartment, and we thought that, well..."

"Yeah, he asked me if I wanted to move out, actually have a place that's ours, you know?" Dean's excited, positively _gleeful_ at the prospect, but he always gets so nervous talking to his brother about Cas, about how serious things are between them. He can't quite stop himself from rambling. "So, uh, yeah. We found somewhere. It's a pretty nice place. It's got a little backyard, like tiny, but it should be pretty awesome. It's got a massive kitchen, a laundry, and it doesn't have a bathtub, but I tested out the water pressure in the shower when we went for an inspection, and dude, you guys gotta come over and try it out, it's _amazing―_ "

"Wait, wait, wait," Sam says, holding his hands out. Dean clamps his mouth shut. "Are you guys saying that you're moving in together, signed the lease and everything, and you didn't say anything? Like it's no big deal?"

"Well..." Cas glances at Dean, questioning, and then turns back to Sam and Jess. "We were going to mention it at dinner tonight, but you two announced you were having a baby."

Jess blinks, and she gets this look on her face, like she's never heard anything more ridiculous in her life. "So...?"

"Come on, I wasn't gonna steal your thunder," Dean says, gesturing carelessly. "I mean, I'd be a pretty big jerk to take the spotlight off my brother and future sister-in-law, right?"

"No, Dean, _no_ ," Sam says, stepping forward. Next thing he knows, Cas has dropped his hand to give them space, because Sam is hugging him so tight it's crushing all of the oxygen out of his lungs. "Dude, you're an _idiot."_

"Right, gotcha," Dean wheezes, trying to disentangle them. "Sam, I need air."

Sam pulls back, plants both hands on Dean's shoulders and stares at him hard. "You should have told us. Hell, you should have announced it to the table, to the whole damn _bar._ " He tightens his grip on his shoulders, shaking him a little. "Dean, I'm _so_ happy for you."

Dean has to look away, his eyes starting to itch. "Come on, Sam, don't get all mushy on me."

With an eye roll, Sam drags him in for another bone-crushing hug. Dean lets him because _fuck it_ , he's happy. So damn happy to be here, to be making positive changes in his life, and to be buoyed by the love and support of his growing family.

\---

It's late now, just past midnight. Dean and Cas are alone, curled up on Cas's bed. There's a laptop perched on Dean's knees, streaming some movie about aliens and robots. Dean's propped himself up while Cas has his head tucked into Dean's shoulder. Throughout the film, Dean drags his fingers along Cas's scalp, eliciting content puffs of air that tickle Dean's chin.

The bedroom is stuffed to the brim with cardboard boxes. The one with the adventurous sex toys is among them, but mostly the boxes are full of clothes, books, and a whole lot of junk that neither of them are prepared to part with. Dean's apartment has been stripped clean, and now all of his crap is mixed in with Cas's. Most of Cas's apartment has been stripped as well, save for some of the important things, like the kettle. Both of them die if they don’t get their tri-daily hit of caffeine.

Cas hasn't been handling the move all too well. Obviously he's thrilled with the new place, and has assured Dean that _yes_ , he absolutely _positively_ want to move in with him, but Cas is very attached to his place, to his routine. He's not a huge fan of change, but then again, who is?

In any event, Cas has been down recently, shifting between periods of neurotic packing and cleaning, to collapsing on the bed and napping for five hours in the middle of the day. His mental health has gone a bit haywire, but Dean's managed down the fort pretty well. It's kind of astonishing, really, because he always saw Cas as the strong one between them. Maybe Dean can be strong now, too, when Cas needs him to be.

Despite all the drama that comes with moving, however, Dean has faith that they'll make it through alright. He's never had reason to doubt their relationship. On his dark days, Cas has always been that light which guides him back, and perhaps Dean has become that for Cas as well. Maybe that's poor judgement on Cas's part. Then again, Dean's been surprising even himself recently.

Cas snuffles, curling in closer. Dean chuckles. "You still awake?" he whispers, pressing his lips to Cas's forehead.

"Nnnngh," Cas protests, burrowing his nose between Dean's arm and chest. "Yeah."

"Go to sleep," Dean tells him, kissing him again. "It's pretty late."

"Okay," Cas yawns, slipping off Dean's shoulder. He lays his head on the pillow but his face is still pressed against Dean's arm. His fingers locate Dean's hand beneath the covers, clutching gently. "Goodnight, Dean. Love you."

Warmth spreads slowly from the centre of Dean's chest, his pulse fluttering. Christ, it's been _months_ since he first heard those words.

Quietly, Dean closes the laptop and turns on his side, facing Cas. "Yeah," he exhales, nuzzling closer until their foreheads are pressed together. "You too."

 


End file.
